The Thirsty Hibiscus
by shadowed breath
Summary: Caught in the emotional and political aftermath of the death of the Golden Rider, the Lady Nasuada and the Varden must press on through a terrible winter; a task made even more difficult with the new Prince of Uru'baen.
1. Chapter 1

Hello readers...who may have stumbled upon this fanfiction before and are wondering what in the world happened here. The fact is this is the New and Improved "The Thirsty Hibiscus" - with a whole new plot, and completely rewritten and re-directed. There are some elements that are similar to the old story, but this my friends is something completely new.

For those who are still willing to bare with me here. I promise to do my absolute best that you enjoy the ride.

_The hibiscus is a symbol of fragile beauty and love...a thing that embodies the type of relationship that Murtagh and Nasuada share...fragile..oh so very fragile.  
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_- Shadowed Breath  
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_Prologue_

_The sun seemed a blare of dying red in the sky, as it at last sunk its sallow head into its watery grave: the faded horizon. _

_The sea lay in a blanket of still black shadow. _

_The moon hung unseen, hidden against the descending darkness of the night sky. White sands were bathed gray in the pallid hue._

_Even then the air stunk of bondage… of casted spells, of choking words and souls ripped into void by foolish incantations. He knew __**this**__ was death…that the sandy beach of the new land they had tread upon would not – could not save him. This was their end. _

_Alagaesia…the fertile land that they would never inherit- lay before them, untouched, untamed, unsoiled by their dying hands._

_Amber eyes glowed in a burnt ochre hue, like the fading fire light of their bonfire._

_The air singed - hissed with the fresh spells that would forever bind the nature of their magic – of the magic of the' maka', the earth. _

_Their bodies lay strewn in a sickly array of ebony tones, scattered about the ragged shore. His own body slicked black by the dark night shadow, sunk into the sands. Breathing slowed to gentle moans. _

_He could feel the Keezheekoni, that life force – the 'burning fire', fade from his slender frame as he lay unmoving in the white sands. The gentle tide from the ocean-home slunk upon him, bathing him gently upon the shore line. It seemed to be calling to him, calling him back home - home across the sea…The home they had left behind; a home of savagery and death. The irony was almost bitter…they had come so far, braved the monstrosities of the unchartered waters only to die by their own resolve. _

_The gentle roar of the ocean beckoned louder to him, yet there was an inner roar…the deafening one of an animal cornered, blatantly refusing to die – refusing the awaiting darkness. Amber eyes for split second regained their light, flashing with the ferocity of the Great Cat; and dark fingers found it, hanging precariously from his neck…the stone..._

_...the Ruby.  
_

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__You know the policy, read and review guys. Since this was such a short Prologue I decided to post this right alongside the first chapter. Hope you guys enjoy...I really need some feedback though guys.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, here is the promised Chapter right after the Prologue. Sorry I took a few minutes to upload it, got a little busy in between - where I actually got my first reviewer Islanderr ( I hope I spelled that right) Many thanks!

Summary: Set right after the Capture of Feinster and the death of Oromis, the aftermath of these events are etched into the worn faces of the Lady and Her Blue Rider...

Disclaimer: I do not own any of Paolini's creations though I wish I did so I could change a few things...

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Chapter One

_Of Endings and Beginnings and Goodbye's_

It was indescribable - the bobbing and weaving, the heights of fleeting joy of past memories still fresh and the heart wrenching depths of a death not forgotten. He remembered him, paled toned skin littered with wrinkles that were earned rather than aged; they mirrored a regality of sorts. He remembered the slanted blue eyes, the steady voice that neither raised nor lowered in anger, the way he hung his head in that vain elf like manner, but not quite like _them_…He was a Rider first, he was his teacher, his ebrithil. He was Oromis.

Eragon had not slept in days that seemed to stretch into very weeks. He was broken…_everyone_ had died. He was cursed…he was convinced of it. Brom…Hrothgar…Oromis… _-Murtagh._

…_Murtagh, bloody…eyes flashing black with unmatched hatred as he reigned down upon a weakened Oromis with red cackling lighting in his hand…_

Eyes flashed weakly with the painful memory, his stomach twisting in sorrow. Oromis was dead. Nothing, _no one_ could bring him back. The pattering pain of hunger lingered as body wafted through the nameless days without sustenance. Body slowly faded, but his soul seemed broken; his mind left to replay those awful images over and over again. The only thing that kept him alive was her voice. The burning feeling inside his mind, that heat, that warmth, that presence that assured him that he was still alive. He was alive yet he was dead, just as Oromis was. ..just as Glaedr was. The golden orb of his Eldunari laid beside him sharing in the silent mourning of the Blue Rider and his Dragon. Yet his was a sorrow Eragon could never truly understand; a sorrow he hoped never to.

He had left them, Arya, the Queen, Blodhgarm… the rest of elves in Du Welden Varden. The Rider couldn't stand it being back there…it reminded him too much of him. It stung like salt in a fresh wound, their grace, their eyes, their unnecessary pleasantries….Yes the wound was too fresh, his death too soon to linger after the ceremony. They had flown back to the Varden almost the night after it had ended. The Varden had understood, they had left him be. They had allowed him to mourn in suffering silence with Saphira. The two were apart, he stationed like a statue within his dwelling, she seeking unfound comfort in vast the desert lands of the Hadarac; Yet the two were joined by the threads of their bond, sharing their pain in silent mutual waves over the past two weeks.

Two weeks…

It seemed longer to him as he slowly turned from his side unto his back. A muffled sigh escaped hunger cracked lips as his gaze turned heavenward. The tent was enveloped in utter darkness as it had been since he had arrived after the funeral a week ago. He had lain there for the remaining week, watching the sun rise and set habitually in a flurry of blinding colours behind the thick burlap. The world went on outside. The Varden continued unperturbed by the death of the great Rider, while inside Eragon's world lay in shadowed chaos. He lay there in his now rooted spot, propped haphazardly in his cot as hazel eyes drained of joy stared upon the hanging burlap of the tent roof. The rugged material seemed to pity him in his sorry state as it hung untethered by the world. Angrily, he turned away suddenly from the piercing gaze of the lifeless flap. Its stare seemed demeaning, frowning upon him as if in disapproval…the silent expression that had stilled the withered face of Oromis countless of times.

He had turned in anger, and then -he had slipped. A harrow groan split through chapped lips as bones racked against the hardened ground of the tent. He was too weak to get up, too weak to protest the piercing pain that had seeped suddenly into his body; too weak to fight the dreadful flashbacks. The Blue Rider only lay there unmoving, mind exceedingly numb as he was left up to the mercy of the memories that would not cease to haunt him…

-X-

There was a sigh, one of the many that had erupted from the full dark lips of the Lady over the past weeks. It seemed to her that things were ever so slowly, turning upside down. Well, rather perhaps it was the stagnancy, the quiet lull that had settled upon the Varden upon the Golden Rider's death that disturbed her, that fed her paranoia. The Empire had not yet attacked again and she was sure that Galbatorix had heard about their recent capture of Feinster. She couldn't help but feel that he was planning something terrible for them. Her mind then lingered to that of her unseen vassal before returning to the frustrating paper work at hand. It seemed she had become a scribe rather than the leader of the Resistance.

The scribbly rather untidy handwriting of Roran StrongHammer was etched into the dimly lit parchment that she had presently in hand. For a moment Nasuada struggled with it, then frustration getting the better of her, she resorted to catching the wick deeper in the oil lamp beside her. The flame visibly brightened, illuminating the small space of the private study that had been rather conveniently connected to her new bed Chambers. Relatively soothed, she settled back into hard discomfort of her wooden chair and attempted to decipher the _'glyphs'_.

Brown eyes narrowed belatedly as they scanned the moderately lengthy report again. It seemed things were a bit unsettled after all. There were reports of small uprisings in Surda, particularly in the capitol, Aberon where Nasuada had charged Roran, as General, to keep the Varden presence in the country steady and disciplined. Tired eyes blinked as they read the parchment again, and yet another sigh was procured. Things were _definitely_ unsettled. She had received similar reports from across the southern country since the taking of Feinster.

"Drink M'Lady…?" The dark skinned woman leaned slightly as an older feminine voice lingered to her from the opposite side of the small study. Farica, her hand maid had made it her point of duty to keep her company in the nights after Jormundur had scolded her she was _'running herself into the ground'_. At first Nasuada had deemed her great distraction, but after few weeks she had learned to love the company…relished it even. Farica just somehow knew how to relieve her from her work even when she didn't even know how to do it herself. It was also nice having someone to talk- to distract her when the work became too much. For so long she had braved the nights, the unending stress and recently, the utter creepiness of the Feinster stronghold alone. The rooms just seemed to have this darkened aura and Nasuada found it difficult to concentrate in such space. A part of her wondered how the Lady Lorana had borne it; the whole Chambers just seemed suffocating: And made her miss the open space of her Varden tent even more.

The cool surface of the familiar metal goblet slipped within her grasp again. Nasuada sighed, feeling if only some of the stress melting away as Farica poured the cool red liquid from the wineskin smoothly into the cup. Belatedly inhaling the sharp aroma of the small Surdan delicacy, she then sipped it, restraining herself from taken large gulps as the reality of the past few weeks settled in mind.

The Rider Oromis was dead. Nasuada personally did not know the elf, but it had been a great hit to the Varden. Yet again the Red Rider had managed to wreak absolute havoc on their troops in Gilead: greatly wounding their numbers, destroying another Rider and permanently damaging Eragon's already tethered psyche. And although Arya and Eragon had managed to kill yet another shade and the Varden gain another city, there was great unsettlement within their region: Unsettlement evident in reports such as Roran's.

"King Orrin's people have yet again managed to ruin my evening…" Nasuada murmured almost angrily to no one in particular. Farica had heard however and turning away from her tiny make shift cot and her almost completed quilt, she tinkered closer to the Lady's table which had been overlaid with a disarray of various parchments. The older woman drew a chair beside her, took the report from her and placed it on the cluttered table.

"What of our Rider?" a sallow smile stilled the dark woman's face at her hand maid's rather pathetic attempt to change the topic. The thought of Eragon at the moment only managed to procure even further stress. He had not been heard from in almost two weeks. She had only known of his arrival back in Feinster the week before, as he had been spotted by a Varden tower guard flying towards the citadel. She had not seen him. She had not spoken to him in so long. A bleak expression stilled her features as she turned towards the older woman. She glanced at her for a minute, sighed, then turned back towards the Surdan report. Eyes further furrowed.

"The groups of peasants who now call themselves the Night Lighters have escalated from the mere nuisance of harassing Varden soldiers on duty in the capitol, to torching the storage houses assigned by King Orrin for the Varden. One large grain house has been burnt completely to the ground, two others have been severely damaged… " She read the parchment out loud, her own tactic of avoiding Farica's question. She couldn't think of Eragon…not now. She knew that he would heal eventually as she had….

-_Had _she?

In retrospect, Nasuada wasn't truly sure. She had simply been thrust into position and so thrust all thoughts of ripping grief and dead father out of mind. She had neither cried nor grieved…she had fought, and led and even bled in some instances: but she had never _truly_ grieved. She thought of Eragon and her eyes softened. He had experienced so much loss for someone so young. A dreadful unknown voice whispered to her of their close proximity in age.

-Another sigh.

"I will need to speak with King Orrin in the morning about this." She said finally, turning to her handmaid again. The older woman nodded at her and stood, grasping the wineskin in hand. A darker hand grasped hers suddenly.

"Leave it." She said absentmindedly, brown eyes still glancing upon the stack of reports that she would have to read for the night. This would be the third night without sleep. She could literally feel the headache _waiting_ to attack.

A faint look of disturbance stilled Farica's face at Nasuada's request. The young woman had taken even more to drink over the past few weeks. Farica always knew she was a lover of wine like her father was, particularly of the Surdan vintage, but this went to another level. Since the battle of Gilead she had increased her intake by almost double; downing almost half a bottle per night and to a point mirroring the Surdan King's own recent distasteful drinking habits - the difference being that Nasuada never drank in public. Nevertheless she relented in silence; and accepted that this was her own way of dealing with the mind weltering stress. Leaving the wineskin on the table beside her, the hand maid slithered to her small cot in the corner of the study, giving her Lady fair amount of privacy.

"You may retire to your quarters, Farica." She murmured belatedly, grasping another parchment from the large pile. Umber eyes scanned it quickly, then deeming it relatively unimportant; she then placed it on the opposite side of the table – the less urgent pile. Nasuada recognized bleakly that these reports consisted mostly Varden squabbles, citizens who felt cheated by the vast increase of theft – the less urgent indeed; she remembered a time when actually had _time_ to pay attention to such matters, where she enjoyed bringing small justices to her people. She glanced up at the pile again, and Nasuada felt herself heave in frustration as she realized the **'urgent'** pile vastly out sized its counterpart.

"Farica…?" eyes stopped their reading as belatedly she realized that her hand maid had not answered her. Twisting herself around, she glanced up towards the cot where she thought her servant had dozed off. She was relatively annoyed however to find her wide awake, finishing the last few squares of her quilt. She had obviously heard her.

"M'Lady…?" the older woman questioned, eyes still not breaking from her work at hand. Nasuada felt herself seethe inwardly a little. No other servant took such measures with her, such open disregard. She huffed in bit as she realized that Farica was no _ordinary _servant. The woman had practically grown her for part her life. Farica had been attending to her since Nasuada was eleven; for eight whole years. She was a mother of sorts; not that Nasuada knew what having a mother was like. She had never known hers. And strangely she had always found herself not caring.

"It wasn't a request." She murmured her tone firm but not unkind. She then turned back to the task at hand as the hand maid reluctantly stood from her seat, gathering the now completed quilt in hand.

"M'Lady…" Farica suggested, taking on a more humbled tone. "I could stay with you, until you have finished."

Nasuada smiled weakly at the suggestion, but shook her head and turned to the woman again.

"No. I would not deprive you of what little sleep that you get. At this rate…" she pointed to the devilish pile of reports and the like on the desk. "I'll be here the whole night and would not have you suffer the same." She paused a bit as the woman neared the study's door.

"Farica…" she called again hesitantly, glancing at the colourful quilt that the servant had left on the seat beside her.

"Yes M'lady?"

"Your quilt, you've forgotten it." She made to get up, but her servant quelled her attempt with a wave of the hand.

"It's yours." She said, glancing at the Varden Leader with an inexplicable expression on her face. Nasuada looked surprised as she continued. "I made it for you…Winter's a few months away and the nights can get chilled sometimes."

Nasuada nodded at her, murmuring a thank you while a small smile stilled her tired face. Eyes then widened as the hand maid teetered through the door. Her words sunk her like a giant weight. Nasuada grabbed the goblet again and took a long gulp, finishing its contents as she slumped against the paper laden desk. All this while she had been focused on the Empire troops, on Gilead, on Eragon and the uprising in Surda…what she should have been focusing was on _Winter_. She felt herself sink even further into the hard discomfort of her seat, mind set on edge. And suddenly she understood….

-X-

"They want food." There was a glint of a smile on Nasuada's face that did not reach her eyes as she turned to King of Surda in the light of the new morn. After a whole night of toiling at her reports she had finally relieved herself at dawn, not that the reports were finished –she still had more than forty to go through. All notions of sleep having left her body, she had resorted to an early morning stroll about the corridors and had come across the young King by chance. There were large bags under her eyes, evident of her now third day without sleep, yet there was triumph in her realization.

"I do not understand…" Orrin murmured softly, Roran's report in hand as they walked lengthily down the Feinstern corridors. A soft cold emanated from the cobble stone walls of the hallway and Nasuada clutched a little closer to the deep blue dress that she had worn that morning. Beside her Orrin continued to glare at the document as the two emptied into the belly of the large dining hall that she had converted into a hall for the war council. The confused expression of the Surdan King remained as they finally took seat at the head of the Council's table.

"The Night Lighters...they have organized these uprisings because they want food Orrin." She murmured to him from the other end, discarding the courtly formalities absent company. The soft yawn punctuating her statement echoed through the large lonely hall. Orrin raised an eyebrow at this, but settled on to reading the report again.

"This makes no sense, Nasuada." He concluded, turning to her. "They have burnt three grain houses without taking _any_ of the food." He placed the report on the table as a servant brought the morning meal. Nasuada frowned lightly at the almost disgusted expression on Orrin's face as he glanced at the array of vegetables and venison that was set before them. He was about to complain when she interrupted.

"It's the Varden." She said taking a grape from the fruit bowl that had been set before. She then belatedly popped the small purple fruit into her mouth. Orrin placed his fork back into his untouched platter, green eyes questioning.

"The Varden numbers in Surda are too large with the addition of the Wandering Tribes and of course the large concentration of dwarves within the country." She continued midst her chewing. "With the over increase in population, the citizens do not want to share their food when Winter's only a few months away and hunger would be rampant. With the recent hit of the summer frost plague, you do not have enough grain to support both peoples – the citizens know this."

The frustrated expression that Nasuada wore the previous night was mirrored in the young King's face. The words summer frost plague seemed to hit him. He remembered the devastating crop plague. It had struck the country suddenly_, almost conveniently_ a week before Feinster's capture. The citizens had said that it had been the work of some devil, but black magic seemed a more pliable answer to him – Summer _frost_ – indeed it had been. He could practically imagine the horror stricken faces of Surdan farmers as they awoke to frost burnt corn and the wheat in the middle of the searing Surdan temperatures. Everything had been hit – they lost half their harvest in the space of four days. He sighed a bit, her words resonating with him as he brushed back dark blond hair with jeweled fingers.

"The Varden and Surda have lived side by side almost two years now. I would've expected some amount of cohesion or loyalty to one another, not burning grain houses." He murmured daring take a bite of the Feinster dish. Nasuada almost shook a head at the thoroughly contemplative look on his face as he began chewing.

"Loyalty is almost always foregone when self-preservation is questioned." She sighed and glanced at her own meal in hesitation. Feinster's dishes seemed repetitive. This was the fourth day that they would have venison for breakfast.

"What do you suggest I do?" his tone held a scruple of hostility, his ego obviously bruised. It had always been rumoured that the Lady of the Varden had always been secretly governing the Kingdom of Surda as well as her own people, and observations such as this only managed to heighten such suspicion. The fact that Orrin for majority of times could only find solutions through her advice propelled such rumours closer to the truth. It became rather obvious to her over the years that he felt somewhat threatened by her presence.

"_You_ are the king, Orrin…What would you do?" she murmured almost coyly attempting to soothe somewhat damaged ego. It worked for the while. Orrin straightened in his seat, suddenly adopting a regal presence.

"The elves…" he said his eyes suddenly alight. "I have heard that they sing food out of the ground…"

Nasuada almost immediately shot down his answer with a shake of her head.

"I know what you are suggesting King Orrin, but we do not have enough elves in Feinster to spare. Galbatorix may attempt to reclaim this land at any time and we are not ready. The spell casters from Gilead are still recovering from the battle, and the Princess Arya and her company have yet to return from the Gold Rider's funeral." She paused deciphering the exasperated expression on his face. It was strange how she felt pity for him and wondered if that was how Jormundor and Farica felt when they saw her in same state.

"_Then_ what?" he almost growled, fork clattering against the dense silver plate as it fell from his grasp.

"We have to move." Her words seemed even more foolish to herself as she procured them hesitantly. A laugh sounding more like a light cackle erupted from the king's lips.

"Lady Nasuada…you jest too well." He murmured to her, testy smile etched across his lips as he returned to his breakfast.

"I'm not joking." She said firmly, taking a few figs from the bowl of fruit and placing them neatly in her own plate. She then poked at the venison with her fork before taking a bite. When she glanced up green eyes were fixed upon her with a deadly glare.

"The fact that you would even dare insult my intelligence by suggesting such a thing is reprehensible in itself. Nasuada, you and I know that the Varden cannot move from Surda at the moment. Surda is a country, Feinster is a _city_. The grain houses here are far smaller, less in number and less adequate. Your people would _starve_ here." He said almost like a father scolding a child. Nasuada did not take to the attitude and soon adopted her own.

"They will starve in _Surda,_ and the few grain houses burnt will soon turn into full bloody riots, and then everyone, Surdan and Varden will starve." She said calmly, her tone almost searing. "If you want your people murdering each other by winter, then let the Varden remain. Galbatorix would certainly entertain the thought of his enemies weakening themselves by turning against one another." She paused for a moment, then added daringly. "If your citizens arm themselves, the Varden will fight back, and things will only become uglier after such event."

The glare of green eyes softened to a reasonable stare at this, yet the anger remained in his eyes. He knew that Nasuada was right, and it only upset him more.

A moment of silence stilled between them, the both of them evidently enveloped in own thought. The only sound was the shuffle of servant feet and the gentle trickle sound of goblets being filled with sweet wine. The soft light of sunrise had risen to reasonable glow and the sun shone brightly through the adjoining terraces creating long sharp shadows in the open dining hall. A part of Nasuada wondered about the company within the stronghold. The Feinstern halls just seemed all the lonelier now that the Varden had been divided somewhat. The majority of the dwarves had returned to Surda, as the city could not accommodate the heavy numbers, Eragon was nowhere to be seen and Arya and her company of elves had left for the Funeral of Oromis the Rider. Nasuada had only the Council of Elders and the testy King of Surda to keep her company and the thought depressed. She had managed however to avoid them for few days by diving into her work, yet this report needed attention and so she had emerged from recluse to address the need.

"Halve the numbers…" Nasuada turned to the sound of mumbling from the Surdan King, abandoning her own thoughts. His mumbled words soon formed into louder sentences as he formally addressed her.

"We need to halve the numbers of the Varden and divide them equally between Feinster and Surda. That should give enough relief to the grain houses in Surda while not straining those of Feinster to the point of starvation."

Nasuada's answer was silence as she contemplated the words of the King. She gazed at him as he took a swig at the sweet pear wine that the servants had poured for them. Ever so slowly she nodded. It was reasonable…the only reasonable solution at the moment. And though it wasn't perfect- she knew that hunger would still ravage both lands- Nasuada could do nothing more but agree.

"Yes," she murmured afterward. A coy smile stilled the Surdan King's face at this, and a look of triumph glazed light green eyes. He had won this round. He had found solution for the Lady instead.

"M'Lady…!" Nasuada turned acutely at the sound of her title, interrupting Orrin's silent gloating. Brown eyes widened as they beheld who had called her. It was Jashar the messenger. The boy had visibly grown in the two years, stretching up to reasonable height, but it was not his sudden growth that had alarmed her. He was huffing, visibly out of breath like someone who had run a mile with dogs at his heel. And even more, he was completely dirty, as if some cruel person had kicked him down in the muddy streets of the city before he came there. Nasuada stood as the boy collapsed to the ground gasping for air. In his hand was a crumpled piece of paper, also visibly muddied. She shifted suddenly, plate clattering as she hurried out towards his out of breath figure at the mouth of the hallway.

Orrin stood as she knelt beside the boy, who managed to push the piece of paper into her dark hands. Nasuada ordered the servants attend to him as she stood unfolding the tattered parchment. She jolted realizing that it was in fact an envelope…moreover an envelope with the _Empire's_ seal.

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Well hope you guys enjoyed this. Just wanted to give a little background to the present situations taking place so I can get the ball rolling. Stay tuned for another chapter! Remember to R&R and for any of you who are interested you can check out my other stories:

Turn my Grief into Grace - A one shot...

Highschool and Its Problems - A modern chaptered fiction.

See you guys soon - S.B.


	3. Chapter 3

Hoping that people are reading. Not too sure, cause I've only received one review so far. But I'm holding out, hoping more reviews will come as the story progresses. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I'm quite proud that I've actually written Roran's POV - its the first time ever! Would love some feedback about that particularly.

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_What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans, and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty and democracy? -Gandhi_

Chapter Two

_The Casualties of War_

_He had always considered himself a casualty of war….of fate. For a moment ice blue eyes blinked back in surprise not understanding it all. Ivory toned fingers grasped up at the fluttering red and white poured upon them from the roof tops as dark leather boots trampled almost gracefully through the crowded streets. It was heavy on his head…seeming more of a weight than an ornament; more of a curse than a blessing. Yet it was power. _

_**Power**__…_

_Pink thin lips pulled into an almost genuine smile, fingers brushing the falling rose petals that had settled upon ruby toned armour. Raven black hair had been pulled back; the glowing silver circle seated almost reverently upon his head. He could almost imagine that this was real. That this was genuine joy, adoration. He could almost ignore the lingering fear in the eyes of the bystanders showering them with poppies and roses; adults and their children yelling in joyful chorus. He could almost forget the torturous pain, the merciless whip, the choking oaths. He could almost forget the dying roar of the Golden dragon, the fading eyes of his Rider._

_It was strange how death in the city of sorrow brought forth joy. Eyes glinted at the escort before him clad in mirrored dark red armour, the twisted flame of the Empire printed boldly in black upon the chests of fifty elite. Yet these men were not only the Empire's…they were now his. A swell rose in his chest at the thought, rising with the crescendo of screaming and the clamour of celebration. And the black haired man slithered on, for the first time feeling a part of it all. – the screaming, the cheers, the rose petals trickling in great baskets from the rooftops- And suddenly, he found himself waving back, eyes daring to smile at how the screaming borrowed louder at the effortless action. They were cheering for him._

_Ice blue eyes gazed upwards glinting at the glimmering shower of red and white; and then he saw him flying, thick muscles shining like the shimmering red of a perfect sunset. This was their moment of triumph – a casualty of war, turned Prince._

-X-

It was raining. The heavy drum of thunder echoed across the jagged Surdan landscape. It fell upon the rotten fruits in the Aberon market, soaked the smoky ash that littered the burnt out shell of the grain house and sodded the streets of the city to favour small rivers. It was raining…and the city was alive.

Children were seen skittering playfully through the shallow brown water, women wading slowly through the streets with chattering toddlers on their hips, men standing on the threshold of dilapidated houses gazing out at the worsening weather. Roran clutched closer to his rain soaked coat as he stood amidst the heavy shower, cursing a little more as the minutes dragged on.

Mail travelled too slowly here. Every part of him wished to be beside her, to hold her-kiss her, to see their child born. Yet fate would not have it so…rather the war would not. Roran huffed bitterly as the cold rain slapped against him endlessly as if punishing him for some nameless crime he did not commit. Rather, he did – he had left Katrina pregnant, belly swollen with their child. He had left her when she needed him most. But she was safe; that was what mattered.

'She's safe…' he murmured inwardly as if trying to convince himself. He borrowed closer in the endless line as another person stepped up towards the shaded booth where the Capitol sorted its mail. Normally Roran would have waited for them to deliver the mail to his station in the heart of the large city. But with the majority of the Surdan population living in Aberon, that would have taken weeks. He couldn't wait that long…he _had_ to hear from her. He had to hear that she was ok. The screech like voice of the infamous town crier continued to yell out the names that were written on the back of the crumpled letters. He could not see the man amidst the stifling throng of people gathered in the like, but his voice carried across the whole crowd. Roran hoped to the gods that this time they would call his.

Mind fleeted back to Feinster and for a moment he wondered if the Lady had yet received his report. The burning of the grain houses only managed to procur even further tension between the Varden and Surdans in Aberon. He remembered the look of utter horror on the soldiers faces as they awoke the next morning to find their food burnt to the ground.

_. . ."They might as well have murdered us in our sleep!" he remembered one soldier yelling, black soot covering his face and hands after he had bravely helped out the fire. He remembered all the others agreeing in terrible vehemence. Roran stood silent amidst the cooling ashes, a waft of smoke blew on him and he coughed instinctively. The gravity of the situation settled in when he knew that the soldier had been right._

_This was one the major grain houses, the largest one that they had. Without it – they would not survive the winter. . ._

After the incidents, he had received countless reports from citizens who claimed that some of the soldiers had begun abusing them. –Not that Roran could do much about it either, the citizens somehow could never manage to pick out the specific soldier that had harassed them and the soldiers protected one another with silence and lies. The tension between the peoples only further grew. Roran hardly anticipated the terrific crescendo and resounding climax that was bound to occur. He knew that bloodshed was close, it literally stained the air – the terrible sense of foreboding. It lingered in the gaze of those in the crowd with him who managed to stare at him endlessly -some in fear, others in utter hate at the Varden crest in his armour. And Roran leaned uncomfortably on one foot, partly wondering to himself why he had been so willing to take commanding position in the gods forsaken city in the first place.

'It was a great opportunity' he cajoled inwardly. 'I would have been an idiot to pass it down.' And indeed he would have been. The Lady Nasuada had given him a chance to truly become even greater than he already was. She had given him, a complete unit to himself in a country in which none of its true leaders were present. By default although he did not become the leader of the country persay, it made him extremely important indeed. And most importantly to him it made himinto a _better_ leader. Roran not only had to deal with the strategies of battle now, but the grain houses, the running of the outposts, justice and the general harmony among the people here. As result, his men trusted him even more with their lives. Nasuada had trusted him, and Roran in the least to say was honoured. The distraction also helped – he didn't have to think about Katrina that often – her absence- and the terrible hole it left in his chest.

Katrina was in Ellesmera with the elves; far away from the reach of Galbatorix; yet even farther away from _him_. Today counted a month since he had last received word from her. Almost two months since he had seen her. The memory of the watery image of wide light brown eyes, long auburn hair and soft giddy laughter still haunted him habitually. It had been torture, not being able to reach out – to touch her – to feel the soft curls of her hair – to smell the soft wispy scent of peach that always lingered with her. He remembered the ripping feeling in his chest as her image slowly shimmered away fading to the fractured reflection of himself in the bowl of water. –Scrying, his cousin had called it. That evening despite the terrible hole that had been left in his chest, he had thanked Eragon endlessly, for the first time truly appreciating the powers of magic.

This was the seventh day he had been here clutching to thinning hope that there was a letter there for him. Dawn had caught him there planted in position; and despite the heavy gray of the rain sodden sky, he knew that it was now late in the evening. Like all other times, he had been standing there for half the day, abandoning his post yet again. If the Lady Nasuada knew of his now habitual lapses, he was sure she would have him whipped again - this time without promotion. There was the tiniest amount of guilt at the thought of abandoning duty, yet Roran consoled himself with the fact that he had left one of the other soldiers in charge.

-No word in a month

The thought resonated bitterly with him and a part of him wondered if something had happened to his wife. Reason however told him otherwise. She was safe in the forest, Eragon himself had told him that – and he trusted his cousin with his life.

- Perhaps, she had just forgotten about him…

He cursed himself for even entertaining such thought.

"StrongHammer…?" Brown eyes jolted at the name and for a moment Roran hesitated not truly sure if it was he who had been called. Gathering himself quickly however, he fought his way through the milling crowd and stepped up into the booth. Legs stumbled as they caught against the rickety steps leading into the small space but at last moment a pair of strong arms caught him, preventing him from planting himself face first into slimy mud covered floors.

As he straightened himself, feeling thoroughly embarrassed, he turned towards the individual who had helped him. Brown eyes widened as they met a rather short figure.

The town crier was a stocky man with a large milling white beard that rolled past his compact shoulders to the top of his rounded stomach. Roran at first mistook him for a dwarf, yet as he gave closer inspection he recognized the man's features were in fact thoroughly human. Still in slight shock, he hesitated for a moment at the short thick arm that was extended to him. He then grabbed it and shook it firmly. An eyebrow rose at the firmness of the smaller man's grip. All impressions of strong male presence were erased however when he opened his mouth to speak.

Roran was utterly dismayed upon realizing that the screechy voice that the town crier screamed through the streets in his announcements was in fact the man's usual speaking tone. Roran refrained from scratching at his own throat as the short man introduced himself. His tone was strung between two extremes, a harsh gravelly voice and an incredibly high one.

"Th- nam's Hal-yer….Hal-yer Browanson." The man shook his head at him as he croaked out his introduction in thorough Surdan country drawl. Strangely his beard remained completely motionless during the action. As he gazed at it in curiosity, Roran wondered to himself if the man had glued it unto his enormous chin or slicked it with egg whites to stiffen it. Contemplation however was interrupted upon remembering his purpose.

"Roran 'StrongHammer' Garrowson." He nodded back at him. He then continued almost immediately, not waiting for the man to initiate conversation. "I've got mail…? By chance do you know where it's from?" his tone had taken on a hint of desperation and the older man noting it, looked rather curious; his thick bushy eyebrows propped, reflecting the same.

"I called ya up -ere lad, cuz av eared ov ya all ovar d-city. I knoow ya face…wandering why yur –ere standing 'roun d-ardinary peeple." He snorted, before hacking into dirt smudged handkerchief. Roran refrained from cringing. "Ya, you got mayl –ere d- ohdah day…sum yung lad came –ere an picked it oop." Roran looked utterly abashed. A fierceness enveloped him as he demanded to know who took the mail and when.

The short man glanced nervously around him. His counterparts, taller men, glanced at Roran warily. StrongHammer curbed his sudden aggressiveness a bit and released the death grip of a hold that he had on the man's collar.

"-Er d'lad nevir gave is nam, boot ee picked oop 'bout siven letterz a week agoo. Ya know d-letterz oonly git c'llected fr'm d-mayn stay-sh'n e'vry Thray weeks…s' sometimes th-can git pailed oop. War still sortin th-old mayl now…" Halier murmured lowly, his strange voice almost cracking with anxiety as Roran visibly huffed before him.

"Did _you_ give him the mail…" Roran demanded his voice set on edge.

"No…I did." Roran turned to his left at the sound of a younger voice answering him. He glanced towards a red haired young man with eyes as green as the pine of the tall evergreen that dotted his hometown. The young man stepped towards him and was visibly taller than he and Halier combined, but Roran felt in no way intimidated. The Varden soldier watched him with cautious eyes, arms folded in dissatisfaction at his chest as the young man came to stand in front of him. The crowd behind and below them radiated thorough annoyance at the hold up, as all the mail sorters had turned towards the obvious confrontation, abandoning their duties.

"The name's Favil Ewenson." Roran raised a head at the last name. Ewen was a well-known blacksmith in Therinsford, a town practically four days walk from his home town of Carvahall. It was then that Roran noticed his accent was northern.

"Eweson…?" he questioned, despite his annoyance managing to shake the younger man's hand.

"Therinsford man." Favil confirmed. "The man who came here the other day. I recognized him as one of your men…" Roran looked surprised yet remained utterly silent.

" I've seen him with you during patrols round the capital. I don't know his name though…" the young man continued. " He said that you'd asked him to collect them for you, and I saw the Varden plate in his armour, so I gave him." Roran felt himself jar even further. He found himself nodding in a dazed state, murmuring a weakened "thanks" and somehow managed to stumble down the rickety steps made of rotting wood through the crowd and into the now muddy streets. Large puddles resembling small lakes dotted the wide street, yet the rain had ceased and the sky remained fixed in the pallid hue of bleached gray.

Roran stumbled on, mind still in a terrible haze. Feet slushed through the puddles, the coldness of the water not resounding as he was enveloped in bleak realization. A Varden man had taken his letters. _His_ letters,…from Katrina, and now even more importantly – the Varden _command_. Roran felt himself lurch at the thought as he trekked through the busy streets, shoulders bouncing off individuals who were too busy to notice that he was walking too close to them. He turned a narrow corner, head slunked downward as the streets made of cracked stone gradually tapered off to a familiar old dirt road. An empty lot now laden with large tents lay before him at a distance; there were no more Surdan buildings in sight. Eyes glazed as he beheld it from a far, the phoenix rising from the fire – the symbol of the Varden posted boldly on a flag that marked the Varden encampment. He knew it in his gut, though mind could barely wrap around the thought….

-There was a _traitor _in his camp.

-X-

_It was night. _

_He was in Ellesmera again…the sweet smell of pine needles lingered strongly in the air, almost pungent in his nose. A soft ruby light shone fractured through the thick canopy of enormous trees so tall that their leafy crowns seemed to replace the sky. _

_Hazel eyes blinked as feet softly trampled through the thick debris of fallen leaves. He felt drawn to it, the light…it called to him like magic – fresh, sizzling with life. A soft hiss lingered unnoticed, as boots crunched silently through the forest._

_Eragon knew this place. The trees were familiar, with thick ridged barks that were clawed by some sort of animal. He knew this place….yet he didn't . This was Ellesmera…wasn't it? _

_The pine needles were sickly sweet. A sense of nausea swept over him as he walked closer to the calling light. _

_It shone thickly through the trees now. He was almost at it - the core. It glowed like liquid ruby through the stifled air, just beyond his reach. Eragon felt his hand numb, then burn then sizzle. He yelled in pain, his mouth –opened- silent. And the light blinded as he collapsed to the leaf ridden ground, his whole body seized by the searing pain._

_The gedwëy ignasia glowed a sickly awful gray colour in his palm, draining from its usual silver-blue hue. He stared at it in dark surprise, then horror as it disappeared altogether from his hand. The sickened feeling enveloped him and he could feel the wildness around him taunting, the sick scent of pine needles suffocating. This place was…hell…dark…haunted. He felt it – the dark presence singeing through the whispering trees. The magic, wild, blaring – crude. He was trapped, he knew it….trapped. _

"_Saphira!" _

Eragon woke suddenly, screaming from nightmare. He lay there half propped in his cot, in the same position that he had lain in for the past week. Ivory hands, in turn mopped the slick of sweat from his face that now covered his whole jittering body. He lay there tensed, heart still pounding heavily inside his heaving chest, before slumping heavily against the soft cushions of his cot. Ever so slowly, he held his palm to the streak of weak moonlight that shone through a crack in the tent; stomach clenched in bleak anticipation. He then sighed with unknown relief as he saw the gedwëy ignasia glimmer from the reflected light.

It had been a dream…

_The light was blaring, rich, evil…it attacked him, piercing through him – his mind- like an enormous probe. It ripped through him, every memory, every…feeling. He was powerless against the force…_

-A dream that seemed so real.

Eragon turned on his side, a helpless tear slipping down his cheek as the memory of the nightmare lay fresh in mind. He had never felt so helpless in his life….so _ravaged_.

He lay there, slumped in his bed, listening to his breathing gradually slow to its normal rate. His heart slowly settled in the like, and soon mimicked the rhythmic slow thumps that had lulled him to dreamless sleep over the past week. But this night, he had dreamt. He had dreamt of a place, wild…dark. He tried to wipe the images from his mind, but they seemed ingrained; like he had truly been there, his whole body felt altered somewhat, burnt by the blaring presence in the sick ruby light.

'Eragon…?' the voice was low, more murmured than anything into his mind, yet Eragon practically jolted from it. He had felt so empty in the silence of it all for the past week. He sat up in the bed, muscles rippling in the faint light of the moon, as eyes unexpectedly lit up.

"Saphira..." even in his mind the tone was gasped. They had not spoken during the whole week and for the past day he had not felt her warm presence in his mind.

'I heard you screaming for me…' she said, voice riddled with concern. Eragon sighed a bit, hands ruffling through short brown-blond hair.

"I…it was a nightmare." He finally stuttered. He inhaled sharply the sickening feeling lingering in memory. 'It felt so real…' he gasped. 'I thought that I had lost you…'

There was a silence between them then. It was long, yet neither comfortable nor disheartening…it was just there.

'I'm on the outskirts of the citadel, Eragon." She said tentatively. A surprised look crossed his face as the thought radiated through his mind. He saw through her eyes the nearing walls of Feinster from an aerial view.

"It's time…" she whispered. Eragon felt his gut clench.

"No…" he murmured almost painfully. "I can't…it's too soon." Hands found the golden orb that he had picked up from the ground before and placed in its habitual position on the bed beside him. Ivory toned fingers smoothed around the silent amber orb.

"The ritual mourning is three sunsets, Little One." He could hear the repressed hurt in her voice, the forced determination. "The Varden…-Nasuada- has given us two weeks." She paused and Eragon felt a wave of that forced calm that she had stilled within herself wash over him in their bond. "It is time." She murmured again. And Eragon, though a part of him wished to stay here in the silent safety of his tent, wallowing in the agonizing memory of a death replayed in every conscious moment, a greater part of him knew that Saphira was indeed right.

-It was time.

There was a sigh. It drew from his very core, and shot out slowly through parted lips…some of the wallowing, depressing sorrow seemed to ever so slowly go with it; fading away into the thin air. And what he found remained was silent respect, honour, and graced sorrow for the memories that he had of the Golden Rider; and now, an ever so slowly growing sense of determination - repressed whispers of vengeance.

-Vengeance

The thought got him out of the cot, and he stood chest bare, eyes dry –opposite to their state during the past week-. He inhaled and the feeling grew stronger. It fed him, gave him strength. Eragon stumbled to the small table that he had placed in the corner of the tent, fingers grasping at an abandoned lamp.

'Brisingr' the spell was whispered. And for the first time in that week, a light shone, illuminating the darkness that had settled in his tent; that had clothed him during his mourning. Hazel eyes glinted as he found a mirror and a basin of fresh water that he had not used.

Eragon gazed at his haggard reflection, taking in all the terribleness of the world that he had taken on in the past two weeks. Hands dipped into the freezing cold of the still water, then splashed against his face, washing it all away.

-Vengeance

The thought was murmured in a whispered tone that he knew did not come from Saphira. It came inward, a small presence inside him, a hate – a tiny fire that slowly grew as he blinked back at the reflection before him. The light shone brilliantly in the small tent.

_The red dragon small, yet incredibly strong…his great jaws had the golden dragon by the throat. The terrible roar sent chills down his spine as Oromis seized violently in his saddle….The red cackling lightning flew in a terrible beauty, striking the Rider in the chest…_

Hazel eyes furrowed as the memory came back to him, yet tears did not come. Hands instead dipped into the basin again, splashing the cold all over his body. And the word whispered even louder in his ear.

He shook himself, as the faintest sound of flapping wings sung through the still night air. Pulling on a fresh pair of breeches and a tunic, Eragon slithered to the giant flap of the tent door, for a moment hesitating. And then he remembered her voice, the truth, the terrible determination in her tone. _It was time._

Eragon pulled back the flap and stepped out into the freezing night.

* * *

Working on my other story Highschool And Its Problems almost done with the next chapter, but the last part is giving me a fight. Hopefully my writer's muse should be working up and about soon and I'll be able to post it feeling thoroughly satisfied.

If anyone has any questions on any of my stories - don't be afraid to leave it in a review or pm me!

- S.B.


	4. Chapter 4

Here again with another Chapter of The Thirsty Hibiscus. Thank you for the reviews of Restrained Freedom and BrightWatcher! They were thoroughly appreciated.

I'm so happy that you guys loved the Gandhi quote in the last chapter. Tried to find another one as equally awesome, yet failed miserably so it shall be mediocre quotes from now on until some awesome ones that relate to the chapter written in some way.

I'm really happy with the reviews I've been getting so far. Thank you so much for your support guys!

Summary: The Lady Nasuada reads the letter.

* * *

And none will hear the postman's knock without a quickening of the heart. For who can bear to feel himself forgotten? – W.H. Auden

Chapter Three

_Of Discoveries_

_The streets were dangerous at this time of night; a thought that did not come to mind. What mattered to him was being caught. _

_The dark figure slipped through another alley as agile and stealthy as a cat. Black boots sputtered noiselessly in the empty street as he slipped over another wall and into the tiny backyard of some sleeping resident. The lights were out, windows shut and he assumed bolted on the inside. There were no chances here in the slums…it was every man for himself. _

_The moon was faint tonight, its glow barely lighting the cold, trash littered streets that wound in an everlasting confusion of narrow twists and circles and dead ends. It would have confused the hell out of anyone else and most people would have been caught by now. But he had grown up here…he knew every nook and cranny – every alley and passage way…the benefits of the dark and a proper hood. He tugged a little closer to the black hood that covered his face, as he skeetered silently atop a wide edged roof and jumped unseen into the soft landing of rotting garbage. The smell nearly knocked him over as he belatedly stood to his feet, half exposed by the soft light from the window of a house whose owners had fallen asleep with a lit candle. The sound of muffled voices suddenly tore through the air and the figure ducked to the ground, pressing further into the darkness. _

_Peeled eyes peered out from the dark alleyway watching keenly as a small group of soldiers chattered on in the main street on their patrol. And his whole body itched in impatience as they slowly lumbered down the street past him too busy in conversation to truly note anything. He then slipped out, glancing in their direction for a split second before scampering down the opposite way. Belatedly he ducked into a nearby alleyway engulfed in utter darkness._

_He stood there for a moment in the smothering dark, unsure if this was the place. There was a rustle and the man stepped back drawing on a dagger he had strapped to his belt. He eased a bit as he could make out a figure as it stepped out a little more into the light._

"_I hear you want something delivered…" he heard the voice say. It was obviously male, a bit husky yet young._

_The hooded man reached inside his pocket of his hood, pulling out a leather satchel. He held it precariously at its strings for a bit, staring contemplatively at it, before handing it to the stranger hidden in shadow._

"_Can you deliver this?" the tone was sharp, firm._

_He heard humour in the stranger's voice, "I usually like to know what I'm smuggling…It isn't pleasant if ignorant and caught." it murmured._

_The hooded man's eyes narrowed at the dark figure. "Don't get caught." He hissed. _

"_No one…" he said his tone adopting even more fierceness "is to open that satchel. It is to be touched only by the Lady herself…" he murmured and slipped out back out into the main street, leaving the stranger there with the small satchel in his hand. The hood flapped against his face as he ran back into the darkness of the winding alleyways and gloved fingers pulled closer at the material shadowing his face. He slipped easily over the barring wall. This was up to fate's hands now, he could do nothing more. That thought in mind, the man skittered silently upon another rooftop and jumped into the adjoining alley for a moment soaring like a leaping cat. Then he disappeared silently into the night. _

-X-

In all honesty for the first time in her life, Nasuada found herself unsure of what to do. It seemed that her whole world was caving in around her. The feeling resounded as she gazed at the letter again, the tattered envelope lay discarded on the table its seal broken. It seemed with the solution garnered for Surda, they had now found even greater problems.

_To the Unseen Hand of the Dragon,_

_The recently coroneted Prince Murtagh of the United Empire has given first command under the blessing of the King Galbatorix ruler of the United Empire and its territories, for the execution of the mission 'Black Wave'. Upon the elimination of the Enemy Gold Rider, his Royal Highness and His Majesty now feel that the Rebels have been weakened enough to deliver the final blow that will facilitate the resounding crumble of the Varden and all supporters. The content instructions of this message are to be transcribed and delivered to various assets across the region as was once customary. _

_Janus Isengildson _

_Captain of the Crimson-star Guard_

Nasuada felt herself sicken as her hand slumped uselessly to her side, the letter in her grip. A wave of even more stress washed over and she felt as if she were drowning. Things had gotten so much worst, so fast. Before her in the large Feinster dining hall, the whole Council of Elders had been gathered for the day and she wondered rather irritably to herself if they were here really to advise or to give her even more of a head ache.

"This may very well be a diversion…" she heard the short stocky Umerth say. It was like a tape recorder (not like she knew what that was) stuck on repeat. She had been hearing the same thing over and over and _over_ again. Her eyes lingered over to the open terrace in front of her and she gazed out into the cold crisp night, the dark air whipping across her face. "The Empire's letters do not simply _land_ into the Varden's hands." She heard him conclude. His valid statement was rebutted by a weary Jormundor for the umpteenth time…they had been at this the _whole_ day.

"There may be a Varden presence within the Empire's high ranks who smuggled the letter to Feinster." Was the commander's excuse. He had been arguing that they had a spy within the high ranks of the Empire itself – a thing that Nasuada had wished many times, but 'til recently had never achieved. Galbatorix somehow kept his men utterly loyal…well perhaps it was because the Empire didn't hesitate to murder whole families who refused to send their sons as soldiers for the King. Yet the thought of spy was not _too_ farfetched – in fact neither of them was. This was in fact the problem. They were both believable – both contradicting - and the Lady had no idea which could be right.

"Forget it!" She finally heaved in exasperation, drawing her gaze from the open view of the night lit city from the terrace. The whole Council in surprise had turned their heads towards her. King Orrin who looked visibly exhausted as she did, seemed to adopt a sudden expression of relief. After almost half an hour of merited silence she had finally decided to speak again; hopefully he thought to stop all the chaos. He eased himself up from the slumped position he had taken at his seat.

"We have no way of knowing if this document is real or not; no way of knowing what the _Black Wave_ is or when it will occur. And worst of all, we do not know _who_ the Unseen Hand of the Dragon is…." She stated turning her back towards the open terrace and facing the Council. She stepped towards them, taking her seat and placed the letter on the table before them. Every face held the same look of disturbance and impending doom.

"This may have been one of the Empire's conniving tricks or the work of a lone ally tucked unnoticed in the heart of the Empire who managed to divert the letter here. The letter is too coded and unspecific for any real facts to be drawn." She nodded tiredly at them before continuing. "The real problem that we should be majorly concerned about is …" Nasuada paused momentarily before murmuring in a deadly tone. "….the Red Rider."

At mention of the name, a dark presence passed over the face of each member of the Council. His slaughter at Gilead and his betrayal was still fresh in each mind.

"His elevation is merely the King's reward for the murder of the Gold Rider. He is a figure head: and his new position holds no major concern or threat to us." Nasuada turned to the cracked hollow tone of Sabrae. The middle aged woman shook in her seat from the mirrored exhaustion shared by all in the Council of Elders –the sallow sags in her neck followed in the same. Umber eyes narrowed at her lack of insight.

"It is not only reward." Jormundor shook his head at the woman, and Nasuada's glare eased slightly. Sabrae on the other hand had taken on a look of offense at his rebuttal. "Galbatorix has reigned for almost a hundred years…" he whipped. "Even with the Forsworn – he had never chosen an heir. The crowning of the Red Rider is a symbol of the continuity of his reign." He said with almost conviction. "With an heir, Galbatorix secures the continuing existence of his tyranny. The question is however after so many decades…why now?"

Nasuada's eyes creased at Jormundor's final statement. He had a point. _Why now…?_ She felt herself sicken with unease as the question settled in mind, countless of possibilities flying out at her.

"The snake has something up his sleeve…" she murmured or more –hissed lowly to herself, but the Council had heard. Most of them nodded in agreement, a few of the others looked too dazed or exhausted to take note.

Nasuada felt her eyes closing as she sat in the hall which had suddenly gone silent. It was evident that this was going nowhere…Everything had been only conjecture.

"The meeting is adjourned for tonight, council." She said adopting a sense of finality as she slowly stood from her seat. Almost immediately the Elders rose from their seats as well, obviously anxious for dismissal; a few of them murmured in disgruntled tones about how things were slipping down upon them. The King of Surda started to make his way over to her, but was stopped by Jormundor, who had abruptly stepped in front of him. The elder man rested a hand on the young king's shoulder.

"May I speak with you in private, King Orrin." The man looked visibly surprised but consented to the polite demand of the General. He shifted away from the Council table where Nasuada had sat herself down at again and slithered on with Jormundor through the mouth of the hall into the large cobblestone corridors. The room emptied in mere minutes and Nasuada was soon left to the disrupting thoughts and weltering emotions that she had been silently repressing.

She heard her breath stop, as fingers slowly reached for the letter again. The words seemed to sear through her. _Black Wave_…the very name seemed dark and ominous - like it death itself. For a moment she contemplated the true meaning, before sighing in frustration and pushing the parchment away from her again. _"…deliver the final blow that will facilitate the resounding crumble of the Varden…"_

The letter did not help in the least more than unease her beyond compare. Not only had they learned nothing of the specifics of the enemies plan, but the mere mentions of such conspiracy only managed to resonate the true vastness of the King's power. He had agents – and they were _everywhere_. A sinking feeling enveloped her stomach at the thought as she remembered the assassination attempt in Surda. In truth, she had been frightened – the attempt on her life only made the danger seem all the realer; it was like Galbatorix was everywhere… and _always_ watching. The bright light of the lit torches flickered haphazardly against the floor making the shadows dance erratically about the wall. Outside she could hear the howling of lone dogs in the street. Eyes furrowed as present thoughts continued to trouble her.

The Red Rider…a part of Nasuada could not believe that the boy she had met those two years ago had become so…_evil_. She had heard the tales of the horrors he had brought against her people, the ruthlessness in his eyes as he torched villages, the horrid raw power that she had witnessed herself– killing scores of her men with a single word. Eyes flashed at the paper again… _'Prince'_ – upon her first read of the letter, the title had scared her. She had never imagined the boy who had shared his open hatred of the Empire becoming the leader in line to inherit the tyranny he had spoken against. He had truly become Morzan. A slow sigh slipped from full dark lips and she stood from her seat, suddenly in need of a drink.

She stepped over towards a smaller station table behind the extensive dining table where she had been seated. Dark fingers smoothed over a large wine skin tucked within the small, round table-topped container were the Feinster servants stored all the alcohols served in the dining hall. Grabbing a goblet from another compartment, she then poured the thin amber liquid into the cup and pressed it to her lips.

Feinster's pear wine could not compare with Surda's vintage, yet Nasuada could not complain. It was drink and that was all that mattered. She inhaled as the goblet tipped to her lips again and the scent was faint, flowery like honeydew – not the sharp tangy aroma of zesty grapes and lush pomegranates of Surda. As she continued to sip slowly from the goblet, eyes lingered about the hall in attempt to still churning thoughts.

Nasuada noted that for a smaller citadel, Feinster's halls were in fact built fairly well – it echoed a sort of simple elegance. Like the corridors, the hall was made of cobblestone but unlike the ruddy brown stone that had been used in the corridors – the Feinster dining hall was littered with stones that were pastel toned: light blues, peaches, soft yellows and off whites. They had been hewn to perfection: each stone appeared mirrored in size, length and breadth and were arranged in a clever pattern that she found fooled the eyes at first glance. The thought made her almost smile as the soft light of the six torches that dotted the corner pillars of the hall, flickered against her cobalt blue dress. She turned to her right towards the beautiful open archways that reminded her so much of Surda whose architecture was noted for its open halls and sky roofs. The terrace itself was opened into a huge balcony that had several openings from the dining hall. It was clever really, it kept the place well lit in the days and well cooled in the nights. Nasuada stepped closer to it, favouring the covering darkness of the night shadow than the light in the dining hall.

The wide balcony was barely lit. The moon hid behind a thick blanket of dark cloud. A large apple tree stood in the midst of the courtyard, its long wide branches hung broadly, brushing against the terrace so that part of the ground could not be seen. Nasuada stepped closer to it, leaning on the edge of the balcony and thoroughly enjoying the calming sounds of the whipping wind whistling through the thick foliage. Dark eyes closed as the sound enraptured her, and she placed the half empty goblet on the wide railing which had been decorated with twisted metal figs and leaves. Breath sharply whistled in and out of her chest as she made attempt to quell the sickened jittery feeling that seized her whole body – evidence of the prolonged lack of sleep. The howling wind whipped against her, causing the tail of her deep blue dress to flash about in terrific waves against deep brown legs. The cold wind…reminded her of him, her father. He had been her father – her blood, yet he had been aloof – and Nasuada remembered wondering to herself in her younger years if he saw her as his daughter or merely a future for the Varden. She remembered wondering if he had truly cared for her. And in retrospect, she found that in his own cold distanced way, he had. Eyes flittered taking in the dark scenery of the city that she had conquered. Lit Feinster houses dotted the distance and glittered against the backdrop like amber stars. The scene did not make her smile, rather it made her cringe as rustic memories began to resurface after two whole years of avoiding them. . .

"_He seems of fair stature...What do you think of the boy?" Nasuada's eyes were shut as she listened to the deep baritone of her father's voice lull over her as they strolled through the rough rock gardens of Trojenheim. She had worn her violet dress that evening, a colour she knew her father favoured and a part of her knew that he had already figured out she was here for another reason._

"_Nasuada?" Umber eyes flashed open as a larger hand rested on her arm waking her rudely from the quiet lull she had come under from the soothing tones of his voice. _

"_Yes, father…" she made an attempt to sound like she had truly been listening._

"_The Rider…Eragon?" A sharp eyebrow raised at her in expectance and Nasuada for a moment seemed lost, then quickly regained herself._

"_He is young." She answered. "As I am. But he is brave, and he will learn." She murmured, and Ajihad chuckled slightly at how much the answer mirrored response he would have given if faced with similar question at her age._

_A silence stilled between them and Nasuada itched in anticipation, wondering to herself how to present the favour she wished from her father._

"_I believe you brought me out here to speak about something else, my daughter." Ajihad turned to his heir as they stopped before a bracket of orange hibiscus, a flower she favoured greatly. It was a wonder how such strong plant could bud such a delicate flower. "Or rather…" Ajihad continued. "Someone else.." Nasuada turned in surprise to her father at this, and found herself unease further as he turned to stare at her with a knowing gaze._

"_It is his friend, the Forsworn's son." She murmured lowly almost to herself. Ajihad nodded at her his knowing gaze twisting into a blank one as he turned away from her to stare at the bracket of hibiscus, one of the few flowers that were not stone in the Rock Garden of Trojenheim. _

"_I do not understand him father." She said speaking her heart. "I have learned for so many years to hate such men, monsters. He is the son of a monster, yet…he is not his father." The dark eyes of her father visibly glazed at the mention of Morzan and for a moment, Nasuada thought her father had not heard her. A long silence settled between them, and Nasuada sighed thinking this was her father's way of avoiding her._

"_One cannot make judgement on persons, Nasuada, without witness of their actions." He said with a weary tone. "I have taught you this, my daughter, and I wonder if you have truly learnt it." _

_The displeasure on his daughter's face was evident as her tone tightened. "You have also said one cannot be judged by another's tyranny. He wishes to provide such actions, but confinement to a cell does not accommodate this."_

"_He refused to be probed! I am doing what I think is best!" He snapped at her. Nasuada was taken a back at the harsh emotioned response. She had never heard her father shout before. She had never known him to be an emotional man. He was calculating, calm and was infamous for the dangerous political smile he always wore – anger was almost never seen. It was evident that this boy, this son of Morzan…disturbed him greatly. A surprised expression enraptured her and the anger swept just as quickly from his eyes. Her father turned away from her, dark masculine fingers reaching to trail along the soft delicate petals of the sunset toned flowers that stood before them. _

"_Morzan was a viper never to be tethered with and his son has yet to inherit his wile. Your curiosity and trust, Nasuada will be your down fall." He murmured, his tone singed with that cold detachment she had known. "You are strong, hardy, and stubborn like the hibiscus shrub." He said, before taking a hand and yanking one of the flowers in bloom. As the large orange petals sat in the open palm of his hand, they already began losing its bright hue. It had begun withering. _

"_But your trust… your heart…" he whispered to her. "Is like this flower – bare, delicate, easily bruised, and even more easily destroyed." Dark hands clamped shut upon the flower and reopened again. The orange flower was completely shriveled. Nasuada looked almost offended and utterly confused as he continued._

"_My daughter I will not always be around to protect you from brooding intruding hands that may pluck at your flowers, causing them to wither. So, you must grow thorns my dear…a hardness of heart that will protect you." He handed the flower to her, and Nasuada gazed down at it, knowing exactly what he meant. She then looked up at him, an uneasiness settling within her. As umber eyes locked with mirrored toned ones, Nasuada frowned already knowing his answer._

"_Won't you reconsider his confinement?" she asked nonetheless._

"_No."and it was left at that…_

…_Rustling…_

…Rustling… The sound retracted her from the awful memory like a tick from its host after it had drunk its fill. Nasuada found herself left emotionally tired as her body slumped against the protective railing of the balcony; she hadn't thought of Trojenheim…of her father in what seemed like forever. She remembered herself then. And bitterly she realized her father had been right. She was young, naïve – trusting. The brutal world she discovered soon after his passing had hardened her. She laughed humourlessly at how much her father would have favoured her to the dwarven black rose at present moment; a flower ridden with poison filled thorns. A flower _he_ had favoured. The smile was crooked as the memory replayed in thought. She had become the exact woman he had wanted her to be - a warrior, a leader and cunning in both regard. Nasuada found herself indifferent to such thought as a sliver of moonlight peaked from behind the large blanket of cloud.

…Rustling…Umber eyes blinked becoming accustomed to the peaceful darkness of the night. The wind soothed over her, unfelt …_Rustling_…the sound peaked again, softly this time, and suddenly Nasuada found herself alert, dark fingers already reaching for the jeweled dagger she kept at her side. That sound she realized was _not_ the wind. It was something, someone climbing up the tree…climbing towards the balcony.

Dark body swept quickly backwards to the very edge of the terrace towards the one of the large pillars parting the open archways. She slithered into the dimly lit dining hall and pressed her body against the pillar, heart thudding in chest. Memories of the assassin in Surda came reeling back to her, images of the Red Rider, of the letter, the mentions of the _Black Wave_.

Nasuada could feel herself panic and cursed herself for such human response. She realized bleakly that her guards were too far away in the outside of the hall for her to shout towards them before the person slipped up to her and murdered her right there in the dining hall. The rustling loudened and Nasuada could hear the faint breathing of the intruder. She felt her chest tighten as the dagger's hilt pressed tightly in her hand. Umber eyes then widened in horror as memory came surging back to mind….**the goblet**. Nasuada could've stabbed herself right there for forgetting the wine goblet on the balcony. The intruder would now know that she was here.

She could hear footsteps momentarily punctuate the light grunt that sounded before and Nasuada knew that the person had made it over the balcony's railing and into the terrace. A braveness seized her as her heart thundered loudly in her chest. This was Galbatorix after all – the twisting conniving snake – preferring to send some slithering servant of his to murder her in the shadows of his former city than face her _honourably_ in battle. He was a coward – and the thought gave Nasuada even more courage. The footsteps resounded closer, the faint breathing stilling to reasonable soft sighs of breath whistling through the silence.

Fingers itched in impatience against the hilt…

…The breathing whistling…

...Her heart racing…

…Footsteps clicking closer…

…closer…

…_Closer_…

Nasuada closed her eyes momentarily before plunging head first into the dark terrace again. The dagger was drawn dangerously above her head; her body coiled like a cobra about to strike. The taller intruding figure stood there seemingly frozen in surprise. She did not wait for him to regain sense.

Blindly she swiped at the shadowed figure who visibly staggered back at last moment avoiding the dangerous move. Encouraged, she struck again - plunging the knife towards an open chest. The figure however ducked her move with ease. A panic seized her causing her to strike almost frantically as she realized…no _ordinary_ human moved like that.

Again, again, the shadowed figure twisted around her almost gracefully avoiding strikes that would've killed others in seconds. Nasuada could feel the panic pump through her whole body like the pounding in her chest. She did not realize that she was so close…so close to the edge.

A simple step, he had shifted at lightning speed to avoid another attack, when she found herself still lunging forward dagger in hand. Umber eyes flashed as a soft scream shot from parted lips, her body slamming across the railing. The dagger clattered uselessly to the stone floor, the half filled goblet was flung from the railing and down into the empty courtyard - its contents spilling about her. Her feet slipped against the decorative metal leaves and stuck there. Her body rattled violently in the aftershock - the pain was delayed.

A gasp, as it set in – an agonizing tremor split through her, as the ragged metal dug into soft flesh. Blood streamed down her leg, staining her dress.

Teeth clamped firmly into dark lips muffling her screams.

The shadowed figure slowly sauntered over to her tall, ghostly in the dark.

Her fingers grabbed frantically at the ground for the dagger.

She could feel him getting closer to her…slowly…ever so slowly…like he savoured every moment of her pain…

Blood rushed through her whole body, hot – she could taste it in her mouth, the metal.

The searing pain heightened in her leg, and dark fingers struggled against the distance…the dagger was too far away.

Breathing sharpened, her heart thundering like a war drum.

She was pinned to the railing, the piece of metal stuck firmly in her leg. The shadow slithered closer…each step resounding loudly in her ears. . .

"Nasuada, are you ok?"

A smooth voice murmured to her – a voice laced with _concern_…? The Lady froze at the familiar sound. Her body practically slumped in relief as face twisted in a sour mixture of the same sprinkled with anger and confusion. The figure slithered closer to her, bending down at her slumped body, and skilled hands stilled over her injured leg. Nasuada gazed up at the familiar face, tension in her eyes…yet with it, there was relief…with it there was the tiniest sense of hope. She sighed grasping the hand from her leg as it shot with pain. The moon finally parted from its companion cloud glittering brightly, illuminating the dark space of the balcony. The soft contours of a familiar face were revealed - hazel eyes that she would know anywhere…

"Eragon…."

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This Chapter felt a little strange for some reason; maybe its just my writer's paranoia (it tends to creep upon me unawares sometimes)...XD

I personally enjoyed slipping in a flashback of Nasuada and her father, as their interaction throughout the series is nil. I just wanted to create a bit of relationship there to further explain her behaviour she adopts throughout this story.

Thanks for reading guys. (Working on my other chapters presently, while awaiting more reviews for my other story Highschool).

Remember to R&R!


	5. Chapter 5

Normally, I wouldn't publish a chapter without having the next one already written, but A'las chapter five is giving me hell and this posting is long over due. Thanks to Restrained Freedom, Islanderr and BrightWatcher who reviewed on the last chapter. It was well appreciated. And thanks for all your continued support. Don't worry Islanderr, still keeping the faith...trying not to be discouraged with the amount of reviews. I'm more grateful than anything, and this story is more for me.

Now not to blabber on in the AN, but I haven't written a disclaimer in a while so here it goes.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Paolini's...including the incredibly wonderful plot potholes in his story that fanfiction writers may feast happily from to weave their own works. Thank you Paolini! ;3**

Apologies for any grammar or spelling mistakes, but I as I have always been, am currently beta-ing my own work...o-o. So, if you see any mistakes, please try not to cringe - but bear with me here.

Summary: A mysterious man in the forest with an even more dark task. Jormundor pulls King Orrin aside for chatter, while the Rider Eragon converses with his Lady.

* * *

Many have sought after the code that unveils life's mystery. The formula is masked under layers of distorted patterns, within us. – Sonny Long

Chapter Four

_Layers Within_

_This land was cursed. Everyone knew it. It was a legend passed down for generations so long ago that where the knowledge of such had begun, had withered with them._

_The land was cursed….one could see it in the shadows they saw at night. One could hear it in the soft voices hushed as the wind whistled in unknown songs through the thicket of trees in the shy distance._

_The land was _cursed. _It was felt, whispered among the men, how at night it would call to them, the Forbidden Forest – Du Welden Helgr – the unknown, the feared land of mysteries that men had pondered about in the dark safety of their castles for centuries. Mysteries, the one that sent them here wanted uncovered._

_They had traveled so far into lands, into uncharted territory that many ignorants thought did not exist. But he had known…he remembered the tales as a child - The tales of these secret lands of gods unthroned…of magic that was forgotten and lost._

_A silver gray hue of the unshadowed moon illuminated the sallow, fear stricken faces of each soldier there. It was a mockery – the twisting flames embedded in their shields and armour seemed a mere covering, not mirroring a fire that should have dwelled within – the courage. The dark man scoffed at them, weak, fearful…unwilling to delve into the unsafety…unwilling to grasp power and squeeze it 'til it bled._

_Ebony fingers reached inside the satchel…It was time. Fingers smoothed over the ivory toned object pulling it into full view, firmly set in his hands. For a moment dark eyes eyed the silver white flute, a hesitance lingering within him. This was wrong. He knew it – there was a reason men had not travelled this far to the east - a reason this forest was forbidden. The promises of power, the silky smooth words from thin oiled lips of a man much more powerful than himself slithered back to thought and hesitance was swept away in the same moment. Dark lips pressed to the object, and gently blew. The soldiers poised in anticipation, all twenty heads perked, faces deathly afraid._

_No sound poured forth…_

_He blew again…and yet again there was no sound. For a moment the dark man wondered if truly this had been the fabled flute. A sudden gasp however told him otherwise and he noted the utter terrified look that had embodied the faces there. The dark man stood from his grassy seat, turning towards the truly awing sight. Before him, the thick wall of forest parted slowly like a sea, creating a narrow path that led into pure darkness. Gathering the courage that suddenly lapsed at the sight, he stepped towards the treacherous path, the soldiers unwillingly behind him. Full lips coiled into an almost snake smile…the King had been right._

-X -

The inner courtyard of Feinster was one that visibly compared to the richness of Surda's. With wistful statues of famed legends carved gracefully into many fountains, an open courtyard laden with a lush garden and densely polished cobble stone walkways, surely the Lady Lorana had not spared any expense in its construction; yet the beauty of it all could not be seen at present moment. Instead, green eyes were blinded by sheer anger. Peach lips were pulled tightly into a line as the General Jormundor fell silent, his request – or rather his prodding complete. The young king felt a bitter taste in his mouth as the words played over in thought. The thin sliver of light hung down upon them from the half hidden moon, and Orrin glared deadly into the older face before him. Jormundor seemed unperturbed however, visibly awaiting answer as if it were not already written in the young king's face.

"You wish to insult me, General." The young man stated firmly – lowly. "That is why you brought me out here, to **insult** me…?" his tone grew hot, and it was visible that the King was evidently restraining himself from bellowing at the older gentleman.

"What the Council suggests is reasonable.." the man soothed instead. His tone was calm, cool, and seemingly not disturbed by the wroth expression on King Orrin's face - his tightened fists.

"You think me incompetent…" the Surdan King hissed nodding to himself while his fists tightened until they were white as they hung rigidly by his side. Jormundor tried to answer but the young man cut him off.

"No..it is no- "

"You think me incompetent and wish to _control_ my country…" Green eyes furrowed even deeper in glare. And the young king pointed accusingly at the respected War General. "You bunch of old geezers always wanted my land…wanted to dip your oily little treacherous hands into Surda's wealth…her power. It is only through ancestral honour that I tolerate you lot. My Grandfather before me swore alliance with the Varden, and my family has honoured its decision ever since." Jorumundor gave a warning glare, but the man would not heed. "But I will have _none_ of this!"

The King's voice finally reached shouting. Jormundor icily retorted, being careful as to not draw attention from the few courtiers that lingered about the small garden tucked within inner courtyard.

"You should be mindful just _who _you are speaking to…Your Majesty." he murmured or more spat at him, brown eyes slitting to match the deep glare of the King - who suddenly looked offended.

"And you, General, should be even more mindful as to who _you _are speaking to…and even more the _weight_ of what you are suggesting." The young King hissed equally back at him. "_Marriage…_is not something that I wish to discuss at present moment. And marriage with the Lady Nasuada is even **farther** from my mind."

Jormundor nodded reasonably at this, yet there was discomfort settled in his features; the type the young king had witnessed on the other members of Council countless of times. "We all have read StrongHammer's report. At this point with the recent uprisings in Surda, the picketing, torching and so on, it is evident that the relationship between the Varden and Surda are becoming even more strained as they weeks go by. Soon enough there will be whole riots, perhaps even war." The General suggested, and this reason quelled the young king a bit. He settled unto a more reasonable stare as truth lingered with his words.

"Both you and the Lady Nasuada represent both peoples; both the Varden and Surda need a symbol. They need a union that will quell the matter and join them together as a people…as one people: One people that may face Galbatorix as a truly formidable force. Nothing but a marriage will do this permanently…".

Orrin shook his head, eyes flitting in thought. "Surdan Royalty have never married outsiders…" he murmured lowly. "Surdans always marry Surdans."

There was conviction in Jormundor's face as he split other potent words into the king's ear. "Traditions sometimes must be broken, King Orrin." His tone slithered into the soothing one he had adopted at the beginning of their discussion. "Political as it may be, sacrifices must be made for the good. You are King, you are in position to make such."

There was a silence as the words of the General settled in. It was evident the young King was in deep contemplation. Peach lips then parted slightly, as again green eyes regained their fierce defense.

"_One_ people you say will face the Tyrant upon this union…" Orrin repeated and Jormundor nodded at him. "But whose people…_whose _people, General?" Jormundor fell silent at this. Orrin continued the same anger returning to his voice. "I know that you speak of me in whispers, see me as not worthy of you all….of my own position. And I damn well know that you've been planning **this** for a while. This uprising's only your scapegoat excuse for the Council to seek power. Do you think the Lady will send one of you, or perhaps _you_ General to mann _my _country as the war travels to the north?"

His words obviously struck a nerve and Jormundor was taken aback unable to answer. Orrin shook his head, face twisting with disgust. "I wonder what the Lady would think of you now, with all this scheming behind her back…" he snaked and walked away silently westwards towards the quarters that had been taken by he and the Surdan courtiers. Jormundor stayed behind an undecipherable expression etched into the fine lines of his face. The Council would not be pleased….

-X-

"Eragon…" Nasuada breathed again for what seemed like hundredth time, each time her face twisted into even more surprise and confusion. He seemed a ghost before her, his figure half lit in the balcony as he bent over her hunched frame. The warmth in his hands told her he was real however and yet again she breathed his name the disbelief slowly melting from her face.

"It's me…" He murmured to her, taken a back when she suddenly embraced him. The moment however lasted for a mere second as she pulled him back from embrace and gazed at him intently, a fierceness in her eyes.

"What were you doing, climbing up here in the dark like some slithering assassin?" Her tone was more of a demand. It was evident that she was still a bit upset, afterall she had been terrified and her leg had been –by the looks of things- torn almost to the bone. Eragon had dulled the pain however, and was now attempting to remove the jagged metal from the lower part of her thigh. He had torn the hem of her dress and bound her leg to stop the bleeding as he worked.

At her demand, Eragon fell silent, eyes visibly glancing about the balcony before turning towards her umber ones. "I wanted to see you…alone." He murmured finally. There was no response from Nasuada at this, instead she stared. She understood. He was not ready…not ready to face them _all _just yet. Grasping the sleeve of his tunic with a grimace, she turned away from him unable to look as he pulled the thin metal rod from her leg. A warm hand stilled over her as blood suddenly gushed out, staining his hands and trickling unto the smooth stone tile of the balcony. The spell was murmured soon after however and the bleeding stopped, the sinews of her flesh slowly mending together in his concentration. The piece of broken metal vine lay discarded in a bloody mess upon the tile.

"Your timing is impeccable…Just when all hope seems slaughtered you appear…" she murmured yet her tone was dismissive as if she was taking to the air about her and not to him. Her gaze which had been fixed upon the cold stone tiles turned to towards him. She shook her head tiredly, and leaned against the railing exasperated. Eragon eyed her carefully as finally the last of the spell took effect mending together the ebony flesh of her outerskin - there was no scar - it was like none of it had ever happened.

"Something has happened…?" his tone was hesitant as a waft of guilt slithered within him. He had been gone for a long time…too long…and a part of him felt responsible if something terrible had occurred in his purposed absence.

"Many a deal." Nasuada replied her voice void emotion. She then murmured a thanks as she glanced towards her now healed leg. Anger at Eragon's strange meeting had been swept away as Nasuada reasonably realized that she had attacked him first and he had been avoiding her swipes – never retaliating. It was her own paranoia _(perhaps aided by the disturbing words of the letter)_–her own mistake - landing into the railing. She grasped towards the hand he offered her, helping her to stand, and she half stumbled-half walked towards the dimly lit dining hall. Eragon followed behind understanding her strange limp…sometimes healing by magic left the area feeling deadly numb for a while. He knew that she would recover in a few moments.

The two slumped into the plush chairs placed perfectly in line around the long extensive table of the Feinster dining hall where the Council previously sat. Eragon sat immediately beside Nasuada, unlike the Surdan King in their previous meeting who had sat a little away from her as was customary for dignitaries. The relationship that she shared with Eragon however was different it wasn't quite a friendship as she was his liege lord, but it was rather close to one. The two had grown together, two youths thrust into position they had not asked for – the whole world seeming to demand every scruple of them. Belatedly clearing her throat, the Lady of the Varden turned towards her vassal and silently pushed the opened letter over to him murmuring lowly. "We received this, this morning…"

There was a silence as hazel eyes glanced over the letter and stopped suddenly. Nasuada knew why…it was the word…the _'Prince'_ that jolted him, that caused his eyes to linger longer than they should have. She stared intently at him as face continued to lightly contort to inward emotion as he read through the entire letter. There was no sigh, but lips had pulled into a thin line - the Rider's face visibly hardened.

A chiseled jaw that somehow managed to appear graceful was set in a firm clench. Nasuada eyed Eragon carefully as she realized that his teeth were grinding, hazel eyes mixing with a cauldron of raw emotion. Eragon was always the easiest to read. He had not been trained in the art of deceitful facades as she had by her father. She could see the exposed hurt on his face, it sunk into every line, reflected in the thin pink line that were his lips, the hardness in his eyes. After few moments eyes stopped, evidently coming to the end of the letter, yet they did not remove their gaze from the tattered paper. Nasuada exhaled slowly feeling the rawness slither about the room. It emanated from him, the pain, the hate…Hazel eyes pierced at the paper, stuck on the word. Eragon looked as if he could burn it through with his very eyes.

"Eragon…" The gaze did not move, he was so intent on it. She saw the ghost of a snarl tug at tense lips.

"Eragon…" she repeated again before placing her hand over his. The Rider jolted retracting his hand almost violently from her in sudden reaction. Nasuada's look mimicked one of surprised disturbance as she glanced him over again. He looked lightly apologetic allowing his hand to slither back unto the table beside hers. Nasuada held his gaze, sliding her hand into his in the same. She grasped the letter from him in her other hand and Eragon momentarily looked away not able to stand her supportive sympathy.

"Roran…" she said, changing the subject. She was partly disappointed in her Rider's response, having hoping by some slim chance that perhaps he knew more to the letter than her Council.

"I am not certain that your suggestion…. my decision" she corrected "… to send him to Surda has been a good one after all. It seems since his station, things have become even more aggravated within Aberon." She sighed, returning to what had been her first woe. Eragon however did not respond, his eyes held the same tired look that had awoken in her own eyes at the memory of her father. Nasuada continued however intent on focusing her attention at the present need in Surda.

"A few of the peasants have torched the storage grain houses that King Orrin had given to us as a physical symbol of our alliance and our unity. With the burning of this building and not to mention all its food within, the citizens are making it clear – they do not want to be tied to us anymore. We cannot afford such bond to be broken. We are nothing of an army without Surda's support and I am certain that Galbatorix knows this."

Dark hands slip away from his to tap nervously at the table. "I do not know how the Varden within Surda will truly survive the winter even with King Orrin's suggestion of…." Nasuada paused momentarily as she noted the blank, furrowed stare that Eragon held. He was not looking at her, he was looking _through_ her. Strangely the sight angered.

The Rider jolted slightly as an open palm slapped him sharply on the back of his hand. Eragon glanced at her, eyes narrowing in demand for explanation for the unexpected violence.

"Are you even listening…"she hissed at him. "I'm telling you everything….everything that you've missed the past two weeks because you were under a rock somewhere unable to face the world, unable to face your own people. And you're not even _listening _to me?" Her tone was hard, as she stood face contorted in anger. The expression slipped however as she realized her words. Eragon looked surprised, his eyes reflecting slight hurt like she had injured him. Nasuada however looked bewildered as she stood there. She had never meant to get angry with him…she knew what he was going through. Perhaps that was it really. She didn't want to remember. She slipped back into her seat heavily, face radiating remorse.

"I'm sorry…" she gulped. "I….I don't know what possessed me to say such a horrid thing." Hands slipped over her face as she slumped against table of the dining hall and she sounded more of an offending friend than a Liege Lord. Nasuada knew she would have never apologized in normal state…she also knew such words …such emotioned words would have never left her mouth in the first place. They would have never even come to thought.

A wave of mixed emotion held her….she had not slept in three whole days – she could literally feel the breaking point coming, everything was going wrong, even her own filter – her once unbroken poise had begun failing her…Nasuada felt as if she was going to collapse from the stress of it all.

"I apologize for not being here sooner, M'Lady." She felt herself almost wince at the title. It was said with such formality, it wounded. She lifted a head to glance up at him, the frigid expression on his face made her hurt even more.

"Eragon…" she said shaking her head at him in an apologetic manner. She stood momentarily before seating herself on the table, he gazed up at her. Ebony fingers slid against his face. She gazed into the large hazel eyes of a boy thrust into the world that many men ran from and yet again the cruel voice reminded her. 'So young….so young - lost everything….just like _you _Nasuada…' Her eyes shut slowly as it overwhelmed her and she visibly hunched. She heard Eragon stand as a numbness enveloped her, the cruel voice mocking in varied intonations.

Hesitantly, an ivory hand pressed unto her shoulder and Nasuada opened her eyes to gaze at him. Both mere misted.

"I need you." She murmured at last. The words emanated from her in a crude sigh, like something she had bottled up inside for so long. "I have no one else, Eragon. Arya is yet to arrive, and King Orik has taken leave in Surda. The whole council, I can see them waiting like a pack of descending vultures to feast at my flesh when I at last give up the ghost." She licked at her lips nervously, glancing away from him in embarrassment at her vulnerability. Her father had taught her well.

"_you must grow thorns my dear…a hardness of heart that will protect you."_

Nasuada ignored his words for the first time since his death, allowing some measure of her heart to be shown. The Blue Rider gazed at her an undecipherable expression written on his face as she continued. His hand never left her shoulder. "When you didn't show up…for three days…I was…ok. And then a week…" she gulped as the lack of sleep took over her already overworked body and she began to tremble slightly. "And then two weeks…"

Eragon gazed at her as she struggled to control herself. He had never seen the Lady like this…and a part of him knew that she was only telling him the things she thought he should know…not the whole story - not her whole heart. He could tell that she had not slept in a while, the deep unsightly bags under her eyes told him…the agitation…the utterly emotioned response…the jittering hands. She was needle's breadth away from snapping. After a moment's hesitation, and deep thought he pulled her closer to him into a loose embrace…much like the one she had given him on the balcony. Nasuada did not retract, but allowed herself to be held by someone in what seemed like forever. It was then that it left slowly seeping from her body like poison retracted from a wound…the thing she had not told him - the weltering worry that had been eating away at the back of her mind - that he had left them…that somehow Galbatorix and his Rider had managed to ruin her vassal _(and friend)_ beyond repair.

As they belatedly pulled away, Nasuada seemed to have grabbed at the fragments of the woman who she had become. And in good stride donned the façade she had learnt so early from her father…_strength_. Her vassal looked more settled at this and she stood before him meeting him a full length regaining her poise. He then stood arms' length away from her, nodding at her and then murmuring. "Yes, the grain houses in Surda…?" he motioned in expectance for her to continue to what she thought had been slipping in and out his ears void retention. Nasuada's eyes smiled at him at this, but then shook her head. It was time for him to face up…for them both. Instead, she drew the letter again from the table and placed it right before them. This was what he really wanted…_This_ was what ate away at them both. She saw the look of discomfort cross her Rider's features, yet he remained silent seemingly struggling inwardly within himself.

She eyed him in silence, the light glower of the torches casting their long shadows against the table. Eragon glanced up at her the same hardened tone returned to his eyes. There was a hard determination in them, one like a dragon.

"The Black Wave?" Nasuada questioned clinging to the hope that he knew more of this than her council had. Eragon shook his head at her however almost apologetically.

"Spy talk." He said. "Your guess is as good as mine, but with his threat to take down the Varden all at once, it must be some elaborate plan." He said, his tone strangely was void any hint of worry and noting this, Nasuada sat even straighter in her seat, encouraged by the change within him.

"That's what I thought…" she murmured, nodding lightly. "I doubled security of all major leaders here at present, but I cannot send word to those in Surda for fear of suspicion and fear that it may reach too late. Galbatorix may retract if we warn them, and then he may attack all of us unawares – and we may have less chance of defending ourselves."

She could see understanding in Eragon's face but with it also worry. She murmured gently. "Roran will be fine. He has a host of soldiers at his side all day and he is more than capable of defending himself." At this the man visibly settled.

"And the Unseen Hand of the Dragon…?" Again Eragon shook his head and Nasuada's face fell. She slapped the paper absently against the table before leaning back into the comfort of her chair, not enjoying it in the least. She hissed lowly.

"Perhaps Umerth is right….perhaps it was mere ploy, a distraction from the King…" she murmured, folding lean dark arms at her chest. Hands then smoothed to the lower part of her thigh were Eragon had healed her and Nasuada cringed at how ruined the dress was.

"No…" She heard her vassal say. His tone was filled with the smallest scruple of excitement of a man who had discovered something. Eragon almost shoved the letter back in her view as he pointed at the word. "His Majesty" in the document. Nasuada looked confused.

"Eragon what is the meaning of this?" He had bounded up to stand and bend over her, pointing at the letter even more fiercely. "Look at it Nasuada…" he said discarding of formality. His tone was tinged in revelation. Nasuada gazed at the document, annoyed at her obliviousness to what he had noticed.

"What..? I don't –" he cut her off, interjecting hurriedly.

"This letter was written with a quill…Where are the smudges of or nicks of the feather straying upon the rune "y" in '_Majesty'_?He murmured. Dark lips pursed as she glanced at the document again. Umber eyes then furrowed.

"There are no such things here…" she noted in slight confusion – eyes flitting to other words with rune 'y' in the document finding them mirrored in such regard. It was well known despite any man's perfect penmanship the perfection of the tale of the rune 'y' always strayed with the inked quill. It had something to do with hand reflexes her father had once told her in her younger years, but she had never truly understood or noted the importance of such knowledge - until now.

"No…There are not." Eragon said. A small smile had stilled his face. "This document was copied…by _magic._" Nasuada's eyes widened in disbelief. Her mouth slowly twisted into the same.

"If it was copied that means that this was not the original document, Nasuada." Eragon continued, eyes lifting as the smile belatedly etched into full dark lips. "And that means…"

"We have a spy - in the _Empire_…" she murmured in conclusion, a light laugh punctuating the welcomed revelation.

* * *

Alright, Alright...I hate the ending too...let's not get all whiny about it though. I tried fixing it, yet ended up failing miserably and this was the scene between Eragon and Nasuada was one of the most awkward thus far for me to write. I've never really written Nasuada (not OC or AU) as emotionally distraught or tussled in anyway...especially from stress and lack of sleep...but I've researched and that has a major effect on people...so I decided to reflect that here. Hope it wasn't that bad...

Remember to Read and Review! And of course recommend!


	6. Chapter 6

Ah, Restrained Freedom, as always you truly have an observant eye. I did realize the complications you spoke about before I actually posted the chapter; and Have been literally crossing my fingers in hopes that my explanations won't fall short that I won't have to resort to the good ole 'suspension of belief' that Shakespeare was famous for using. Hopefully I will be able to explain such conclusions in the next chapter as this one is not focused on Nasuada and Eragon in Feinster, but rather on the soldiers in Surda. And of course, our dearest friend…Murtagh.

Thank you Restrained Freedom and Midsummer Nightmare94 for reviewing! And everyone else who will review in the future!

Note: This was a new technique that I have used. I generally had never written with oc characters pov, ever. I hope I did O.K. and I hope that everyone is following the story with minimum or no confusion.

* * *

The Cold War isn't thawing; it is burning with a deadly heat. Communism isn't sleeping; it is, as always, plotting, scheming, working, fighting. – Richard M. Nixon

Chapter Five

_Suspicions_

_The soft pitter patter of silver tipped shoes tapped in slow rhythms in the deserted halls. Shadows lay frozen between the fractured gray that shone between glass stained windows and flickered haphazardly against the ruddy cobblestone walls. The air was still as the figure slithered on, its shadow unseen as it moved unnoticed through the night. Nighthawks, the name was foolish really…more fitting for the present duty, as the figure managed to slip in and out of each hall without any of their notice. They were blind, as their Lady was…as their Rider was – all blind. Lined lips tugged into a small smile at the thought, as fingers found the needle tucked away in sleeve of the dark tunic and picked at the lock upon the Old Library. The fools – they knew nothing of the old castle. They knew nothing of its tunnels, its secret doors and passages that had been forgotten by all else save few too old to make use of such. But this person knew…they had been in secret slipping through the crevices of each space, rounding the Feinster castle in whole nights sometimes, but always returning to this place. Always…_

_It was compelling. The aisles of dusty books, untouched in decades - countless doorways to each wing of the castle. The figure slivered through the darkness silently. Then stopped before it – a cracked bookcase with white broken runes etched in the frame, a door: the tunnel that lead to the shadow swallowed study - a few inches of wood away from the flickering lights inside her Chambers. The figure always found its way there, bland eyes watching through the cracks of the study's door - the soft rise and fall of her chest in sleep. For three nights this ritual had not been fulfilled. She had not slept within her chambers. But tonight she was there. _

_The figure had slipped through the tunnel behind the bookcase and into the dark room of the study. Blue eyes could see her form beneath the bed spreads in the next room– and a crooked smile fractured the statue face of the intruder. It was too easy really…too easy to slip in and smother the dark skinned woman in her sleep. Hands clenched restraining from fantasy, and focused at the task at hand. Taking her life was not the mission now…that act was saved for another with much more experienced hands. A smile stilled withered lips as the figure turned away from the cracked door and slipped to other side of the dark smothered room. Fingers clenched against the strange twisted bolt upon the chest tucked away in the loose stone tiles of the study's floor. A frown split momentarily across a thin lined face as it stuck, not opening on the first try. Eyes then glinted as fingers slipped to the key hung loosely from a plane cord that had been tied around a thin neck. Slipping the key into the bolt, fingers twisted again. The soft click that punctuated the stifled silence procured another devious smile. The chest flew open in the same moment, and hands rummaged through the piles of jewels and secret documents intent on something particular. For a moment, the figure hissed lowly not finding the intended, then fingers froze against a solid object and slowly brought it to the surface._

_Pale fingers slivered against the smooth texture of the aged leather binding of the small book and quickly tucked it between the folds of a floundering tunic. The bolt clicked softly again as the chest was locked and placed in its original state. The hard clink of the replaced tile resounded through the rhythmic soft sighs from the Lady as she slept in the adjoining room; and the figure slivered back through the secret door of the study and into the tunnel. Moments later the shadow emerged from the dark of the tunnel and into the fractured light of the Old Library. The musty scent of ancient books lingered in the air as the bookcase slid on its hinges, closing the opening to the secret passage. Everything stood as if had never been touched._

_And again the gentle pitter patter of silver tipped shoes tapped in rhythmic strides across the cold stone tiles of the Library. Hands reached for the tiny book tucked within the folds of a dark tunic. A twisted smile lingered in faded blue eyes as fingers flitted across the dusty pages of the book. The figure – the Unseen Hand of the Dragon – slipped into the halls silently bolting the door behind it. The shadow figure then swiftly dived into the adjoining corridors, pressed against the darkness as a trickle of night guards passed along the corridors ignorant to the dark presence. The sallow smile never left the withered face as hands continuously smoothed across the hard leather surface of the Lady's book – The Black Wave had begun._

-X-

It was always beautiful – the dawn – as it rose across the naked Surdan landscape. A solid azure captured the widened sky and the land looked flattened, subdued under the magnificent firmament. Damon slowly staggered out from his tent as the real bite of the cold morning air kicked in. His joints felt like they were frozen up, and a hard pain lingered in his knees as he made attempt to walk. Eyes blinked from the sallow light of the sky as the whole encampment was captured with the strange azure glow. Knuckled bruised hands idly brushed against the sheathed curved swords at his sides.

Morning patrols were always like this. Cold, uncomfortable – then warm as the sun melted its slow way across the horizon; then finally it would slither across the sky in its snail slow path leaving a trail of brown and ivory puddles where people once stood. Damon remembered the habitual afternoons – drenched in his own sweat – as he stood in the maddening sun, bathed in the sluggish bustle and stench of the Aberon market. He remembered the flies, the rotting fruit, the dirty children – and stalls that looked more fit for loading pigs than they did food. His stomach turned at the thought of another afternoon in that hell hole as he practically half limped towards a distant group of soldiers who had gathered for similar station.

'Another day for those devils…' a gruff voice stabbed at him from behind. Surprised, in reflex hands found themselves slunk immediately upon the hilt of the two curved swords. Large gray eyes that belonged to the voice, bulged as the soft 'shing' of unsheathed metal stung through the silent air; the thin blades pointed dangerously at a fleshy neck. After brief moment however, Damon then relaxed, sighing in annoyance as he retracted the blades from his comrade's throat. Looking visibly jarred, the elder man rubbed the tender flesh uncomfortably as Damon's hands secured the twin blades safely in their sheaths.

"Damn it, Hathenson! You could have taken off my neck!" he growled at the younger man. Damon merely smirked, hands resting comfortably by his swords as the two slithered closer towards their guard.

"Next time you'd do better than to sneak up on me like that then, Eldorean." The younger man merely huffed in slight amusement, grasping the hilt of his weapon. The two walked lengthily alongside one another in the strained light of the azure dawn as cold morning air whipped across them and caused Damon to shiver a bit.

"You ain't seen nothing yet, son." Damon noted the gruff tone the older man's voice had adopted as he murmured to him. "Just wait 'til winter, when your piss's damn frozen up in your bladder…!" The words made Damon laugh a bit, but when he saw the seriousness in Eldorean's hard brown eyes, humour was swallowed almost immediately as familiar worry encroached him. The memory of the burnt grain house was still fresh in each mind; even more so in his. He had been there on guard when the Night Lighters had stricken – orange cloaks and ugly masks gleaming as they danced within the flames like devilish goons. In the pangs of nightmare – he relived the terrible night – felt the heat of the fire on his face, heard the screams of a burning man trapped within… He swallowed harshly turning to the broader figure of Eldorean, beside him.

"You think, they're gonna try it again?" He saw the same sallow expression slip across Eldorean's face at his question. Damon kept his gaze upon him, his brow creased in obvious worry.

"Carse thay are!" The two turned suddenly to the rude bellowing sound of another's reply. Eyes momentarily narrowed at the stocky form of another soldier standing before them… Rerzen.

Rerzen, was Surdan alright…by birth which made it all the more mystery why he was not enlisted in the Surdan Army instead. In all honesty Damon just thought the man thoroughly confused. He had the most terrible country accent, presumably from the remote Dauth region of Surda, yet he dressed and acted like what Eldorean called a Northern snob-hobber and drank like a beer thirsty dwarf. The burly man with thick dingy locks was so thoroughly confused with himself, Damon truly wondered what went on inside that mind of his; if it was least to say as loud, colourful and empty as his dreadfully irritating personality. It had been thorough torture having endured him these past months, but he admired those like Eldorean who had known the man longer before their station in Surda.

"They may not try anything anymore." He heard Eldorean answer him and the string of irritation that had been itching at Damon's tongue at Rerzen's impolite interruption dissipated upon the action. "General StrongHammer and the Captain gave warning in the City. Any other who burns another Varden territory will be publicly whipped and required to replace the produce lost."

Eldorean paused a bit, mid speech scratching at a graying beard thoughtfully before continuing. " They've doubled the guards in the store houses and extended the watch...the Night Lighters would be fools to try it again." The thinning wisps of brown hair which were scattered untidily upon Eldorean's head flitted lightly as he nodded, seemingly convincing himself of his words. Damon watched the two with a peeled gaze. Eldorean stood before the monstrous figure of Rerzen as the other soldiers slowly gathered from the fringes of the tents in the distance. At moment another cold breeze tore across the encampment and he clutched lightly to his patchy deer skin coat that he habitually wore and slowly took in the wrinkled expression that stilled the giant's face. It was evident that Rerzen 'The Bear' as he was not so affectionately called, was not convinced by Eldorean's words.

"Ya down't know thayz paypl. Thay'll marder ya in ya sleep if deyl af ta, to get aheed..! A' know, am one ov 'em…" Damon visibly cringed at the untamed accent as Rerzen warned them, his ridiculously large eyes bulging at them as he spoke. Despite the crude sound his voice had, his weighted words hit home. Damon felt himself further unease as the other soldiers slithered closer to him nodding and grumbling in agreement. And whatever doubt he had at the Surdans' determination to attack again, quickly disappeared. Damon watched with hesitant eyes at the nodding men before him; they were members of his own guard in the market - Gr'gor Therinsson the crimson haired, Drisdan Larsson from the Northern borders and a man who he only knew as 'Red' . It was quite funny to say that the last was the one he found himself most fond of. While the other two were admittedly not bad chaps at all, he found the silent staring and quirky expressions that Red would have strangely comforting as they stood amidst the boiling heat and stench of the afternoon patrol. The young man who had earned himself such title from the deep red boots he wore, rarely spoke; but when he did, the seriousness that Damon had expected from such character was replaced with the most amusing statements. Yet there was something else, a mysterious nature about Red that Damon couldn't quite fathom – his dark blue eyes were veiled with secrets.

"Men?" The voice was low - more murmured than anything, yet it slithered in each ear as they stood amidst the crisp, cold morning, immediately splitting the grumbling agreement about Rerzen's earlier statement to deathly silence. All the soldiers' heads perked at the sound, and bodies followed suit, jolting almost fearfully at attention. The owner of the voice, slowly slithered into view from behind the thinning veil of the medic tent – a few feet from their small gathering. The tent flap half fluttered in the lip numbing wind, as the soft trudging of his boots on the hard cracked ground brought him closer to them.

"Captain Pathor!" It was Eldorean who addressed him, rightfully so, as he was the leader of their squad – the Fourth Guard. Upon this all the men including Damon, stomped their left feet twice in respect, then yelled a mirrored version of the address that Eldorean had given. Captain Pathor seemed satisfied with the tradition and folded strong rippling arms behind him as he lengthily inspected them with an emotionless gaze.

"Men…" he said again, the soft daggers of his tone knifing each one to further attention. There was an excruciatingly pregnant pause as he paced slowly from the left of the neat line of soldiers to the last on the right – in front of Damon. Hard black eyes peered out from a set of thick brows and pierced into his soul. Damon felt his heart stop in the same moment. The Captain had the eyes of a dragon.

"…Good morning." He finally murmured afterward. The Captain then turned silently on his heel before lengthily walking away from them. As the slender figure of Roran's second in command slithered out of ear shot, an audible sigh was heard from each man who had obviously been holding his breath. Damon practically groaned in vocal relief as the soldiers erupted in the same. It was well known about Pathor 's unpredictable moods, his crude and cruel punishments. Each man dreaded him and rightfully so. Even after so many months, the memory of Willen Uminsson was still fresh in each mind. . .

_The man was broken…bloody. More than a hundred eyes had come to witness this, humiliation. Faces of soldiers and natives alike….the young…the old. All were tinged in some degree of horror. The man had not been whipped…he had been tortured._

_His limp frame hung from the blood spattered post, his face…his back unrecognizable. He was bathed in red, drowning in his own blood, as the raw skin from his back half hung in ragged strips where the whip…the rods…the nails had dug him. The young woman was there too, the same or perhaps even more fear strung heavily upon her young face. She visibly clung to her father…the same one who had demanded justice for purity stolen…who now looked frozen in repulsed horror as well. Perhaps even in remorse for such demand._

_The Captain was there…whip in hand. The gangly snake weapon was coiled in his grasp - the jagged edges of broken glass and nails within it, even visible to Damon as he stood fair distance. Horror stricken eyes were not gazing at the man, Willen Uminsson anymore…he was…a thing…hung like a piece of bloodied meat upon a butcher's hook. The butcher…the Captain…whose face was strung in the same cold, unmoved expression they had always seen him with. He looked utterly untethered by the sight…by his own handiwork._

_. . ._

Damon cringed inwardly at the memory as the sallow streaks of sunlight at last slipped across the jagged Surdan horizon. He shook himself from it, attempting to wipe the disturbing images from his mind. But he could not…he never could. He had been trying for months now…and yet like the screaming man within the burning grain house, Willen Uminsson's limp ragged body would never be…_could_ never be erased from the hidden vaults of his mind.

He shook his head again, sighing a bit, as Eldorean gathered the men together, assigning them to the various stations within the market. He smiled at his aging figure – the streaks of silver in otherwise dark brown hair, his strange limp that he never spoke about and the kind smile he always wore. In a way the squad leader reminded him of the General…Roran Hammer Strong – a man he had only met once – on the battle field where he had saved him from the spear of a painless warrior. It had been one encounter – only one, but like many within the hundred man encampment, Damon never forgot it. He could tell in the short glimpse of honest brown eyes that flashed at him before bounding back into battle, that Roran StrongHammer was a man he would follow to the grave. The General was a fair, an honest warrior…much unlike the silent fear striking figure of his second in command, Captain Pathor who everyone assumed had been birthed within hellish flames of the famed Underworld itself.

"Damon, you're on the west wing, with me and the blond one." Damon could only grin at the slender figure of Red as he pointed to another soldier with his stubble covered chin.

"You mean, Drisdan?" He questioned, grasping a guard baton in hand and handing one to his friend. Red looked at the blond man, whose back had been turned to them both, and pointed at him again, with the blankest expression planted on his face.

"Yeah…whatever he calls himself." Red murmured, taking the baton from Damon and resting it casually on his shoulder; the axe he carried was strapped across his back. "..doesn't make him less blond…"

Damon nodded lightly in amusement at Red's disregard of such pleasantries knowing it would only irk the Northern 'blond', Drisdan, beyond compare. The sunlight streamed across the Varden encampment, dissipating the resonant azure tone to one of solid warm amber. Damon clutched at the guard baton in one hand, the other brushing against the hilt of the left twin sword in sheath. The words that Eldorean had frightened him with strangely lingered in thought as he, Red and Drisdan trudged unto the dirt track that led from the encampment and into the city, the other soldiers following behind them. The sense of uneasiness returned to his gut as he thought of the Aberon Market.

_"Another day for those devils…"_

He'd soon realize just how right Eldorean had been.

-X-

Janus Isengilsdon was a man first – a human being. Yet such oath to maintain such part of himself seemed to be slipping into further void for the past weeks with his new station. He found himself, promoted from simple High guard – to Captain of the Crimsonstar Guard – head of the very troops of Prince Murtagh himself. He had become even closer to a man, that other men feared as a monster…yet with own observance he found the Prince merely a man…an unreadable one…but a man nonetheless.

The Empire Captain eyed the high arch door before him with a tentative gaze, unsure if he should enter. It had been told to him by a guard that the Prince had been in …one of his _moods_ again. He stood at the door in hesitation – not knowing what to expect behind the highly decorative wood – shattered glass, broken chairs perhaps? The giant latch that was perched in the middle of the high door, stared back at him – the metal face of a screaming gargoyle. He winced at the omen, superstition getting the better of him and for a moment, he contemplated coming back at a later time. He swallowed harshly however and gathering himself after a brief moment, he then forced his fingers to grasp the dreadful latch and tapped it against the sturdy wood. He stood there for a moment waiting in the silence and then turned away deciding that the Prince was not within his chambers.

"Come in…" the voiced was delayed, muffled, yet audible through the thick mahogany doors. Janus stopped in the same moment, his heart sinking in the same; he had hoped that Prince Murtagh had been in his frequent spots – hunting with his dragon across the borders…or even in his most recent quiet place – the castle library. He had found him in better moods during such times. When in his Chambers – things tended to get…_tense_. Turning back towards the dreaded door, the Captain steeled himself, and then pushed the heavy double doors inward.

There was a dreadful creak as Janus ducked into the room, the weight of the door still felt on his injured shoulder – a present from the Prince himself after daring to spar with him. Eyes squinted as a sudden dank light assaulted his eyes – contrasting against the bright torch light in the hall. He blinked painfully not accustomed to the dim sallow light from a lone lamp in the expansive room. The door shut with a dampened 'boom' and dark blue eyes narrowed, still aching as he searched the shadow drenched room for the Prince.

Prince Murtagh Chambers were always royally kept...even when he had been merely the King's Red Rider. Yet upon promotion, he had been moved to a more lavish quarters – the very one that his father – another terror in itself – had inhabited decades before him. The room was expansive to say the least and was almost lost in the rich cherry wood and lavish foreign tapestry that it had been furnished with. There was a large diamond patterned carpet in the middle of the room, the only new addition. It radiated subtle elegance with the soft yellow and deep purple that it had been woven with. A rounded scribe's desk carved elegantly from solid cherry wood had been placed in the eastern corners of the room – littered with half read scrolls that the Prince had been dabbling with. It accompanied a diagonal tray of shelves that had been fixed to the smoothed stone walls – a tiny shelf for the reading scrolls. The large, cushion laden bed, with imported silk spreads adorned the opposite section of the room, and Janus glanced at it absent mindedly as he scanned the room in silence, not seeing the Prince.

"Ahem." The simple sound tore him from his frantic glancing to opposite direction, towards a large open window that overlooked the eastern wing of Uru'baen. It was a good view really. It overlooked the palace garden and the royal stables – but beyond those, still visible in the fading light of dusk – were the streets, the outer-borders where there was nothing but squalor and poverty lining the endless maze of dark winding roads and alleys. Janus blinked at the Prince's tall, muscled figure half leaning against the wide window – the dim light casted sharp shadows about him.

"Your Highness…" bruised fists pounded respectfully against his breast as he stood at attention and then bowed his head. Through his peripheral view he noted the prince's dark figure fixed in position.

"You sent for me." Janus' tone was strung perfectly between question and suggestion as he slowly raised his head and stood at fair distance of his prince. At this, the Rider's figure stirred slightly, walking closer to the man before him. He stepped further into the dim light, and Janus saw the awful bruise that lined his upper left cheek. He swallowed harshly – knowing it had been the King's recent displeasure.

"Yes…" the Prince's voice was smooth, deep as he lengthily walked away from Janus and seated himself at the scribe's desk; he grasped one of the scrolls in hand.

"I assume that you've delivered the letters as the King commanded." He more suggested, and waved at him absent mindedly. Janus grunted respectfully in the affirmative.

"And your family, how are they…?" Janus visibly froze at the question, his body jerking to a sudden tense. He stuttered a bit, visibly shocked by such a random personal question – from a man who barely spoke to him.

"M – my f-family, Sire?" At the hesitance, the Rider turned to the man, his dark hair flashing with him – absent the sullen stare he usually wore, and he gazed at him lengthily before continuing.

"Yes. Your wife, your two children Aldrea and Eren, I believe…." Janus' eyes were wide as the Prince who he thought knew nothing of him named his twin children with ease. "And your brother….Darius."

At mention of the last, Janus' face froze into a clenched expression. He gazed at the Prince, his eyes like stone.

"My family, my wife, Aleana and my children are in good health, Sire. My brother…" he paused, his tone strung in bitterness. "...is dead." He stated in finality. He felt his throat clench as he stood before the Prince.

Darius had been his younger brother – the only blood that he had been close to. Both their parents had died when they were young from the purple fever and left them orphans -wards of a fellow nobleman who had beaten them endlessly. After reaching manhood, Janus had left…escaping from angry fists and hurtful words and joined the Empire guard, flying easily up the ranks through hard work, a keen eye and of course the fact that his parents had been Empire nobles. His brother, Darius had been following in his footsteps – rather closely – and had been promoted to the First Rank mere weeks before his death. He had died seven months ago – and their last encounter left the older drowning in regret…a foolish argument – before Darius had been torn to death with his hunting party along the borders of the Ramr River.

"Yes…dead." The Prince blinked at him, seemingly unphased by the words, as he turned back to the scroll that he had opened and then blurted. "A hunting party wasn't it? No bodies found only mangled pieces of bone, flesh and torn clothes…." The Prince turned towards Janus again, motioning for him to take a seat adjoin him. The Captain visibly swallowed and nodded as he sat stiffly, not being able to answer. His brother's death still haunted him.

"Well it seems that he had fooled us both then…" The smooth tone that emerged from the Prince's lips had twisted with tension. "Your brother is alive, Janus…" The Prince eyed the utterly shocked disbelief upon his Captain's face. "…and it has been said, that he is with the Varden."

At the final news, Janus swallowed thickly, shaking his head. He felt as if a sudden weight bore down upon him, and he choked against the thick air in the room. "No…this cannot be true. Darius is dead, we mourned him…planted his headstone in the family plot. Alive?...with…the Varden?" Janus paused, shaking his head vigorously again. "No…"

"Then explain this." The Prince slid the half opened scroll across to Janus and watched with silent eyes as he read it. A confused and bewildered expression lingered in the fine lines of the Captain's young face. The Prince eyed his young, rustic figure. His ragged brown hair lay in thick curls upon his head and his chin had been shaven clean. Dark blue eyes favouring the deep depths of the sea were swirled in turmoil, confusion and…._relief_.

"You knew didn't you.." Janus jolted at the accusation, eyes flying up from the scroll to meet the withering stare of Prince Murtagh.

"Sire, I knew nothing…I am still in disbelief of this sudden news…It is hard to believe that he is alive, after all this time." Janus answered honestly and diverted his gaze towards the lavish purple and gold carpet. A smothered tension filled the air and he could feel a set of gray-blue eyes boring into him.

"I meant…of his affiliation with the Varden." Icy light blue eyes pierced into dark blue ones as Janus glanced back towards the Rider. Meeting his searing gaze, the Captain felt himself further unease upon the solid cherry wood chair that had been offered to him moments a go by the Prince.

"..No." He answered after a rather pregnant pause. "I …always thought my brother a loyal servant of the Empire as I am…This betrayal is…unimaginable…" He paused. "…unbelievable" He added afterwards.

Janus cringed as Prince Murtagh suddenly burst into a dry laugh. He felt his face twisted at this disturbing display – the Rider seemed genuinely humoured. Suddenly however – the laugh was swallowed abruptly, and the humour died immediately in his eyes, replaced with a stern, stormy gaze.

"Don't lie to me, Janus…" The Prince's tone was like barb wire in his flesh. Janus watched with cautious eyes as the Rider suddenly stood and leaned against the table with one hand and grasped the Captain's collar with the other. Janus felt his heart pound rabidly in his chest as he was forced to stare in the light blue icicle eyes of the infamous Red Rider. "A liar knows a liar…" He suddenly let him go, and the Captain visibly slunk heavily back into his chair, his face remained calm to his credit, yet to the observant gaze of Prince Murtagh they held fear…so much fear…it was sickening.

"He was…_is_ my brother." He murmured softly, blue eyes fixed upon the scroll. "What was I to do…?"

The Prince glanced at him silently, seemingly sizing him up. He stood momentarily, turning his back to the sitting Captain and walked over towards the open window, peering out at the night drenched city.

"Nothing." Janus heard the hushed words of the Prince. He stood in surprise, as the smothered flame from the lamp flickered weakly, then died drenching the room in sudden darkness.

"Your Highness…?" he questioned, still surprised. Murtagh turned to him, his figure black in the weak light of the moon shining in through the window. Ivory toned hands reached to touch the bruised flesh of his cheek. His whole body ached from recent torture…

"Nothing…" he spoke louder this time. "Betrayal to a brother is a most heinous crime…." His tone slipped into one that Janus could almost swear was remorse. His next words were almost whispered. "A crime…I am most guilty of…"

Murtagh turned to Janus his face unseen in the dark. "The King knows of your brother. He wished for me to question you if you knew of this…_betrayal_." Janus felt the fear creep up on him again. The hairs on his neck prickled in dark anxiety.

"He would have you executed…your family no doubtedly _dealt with_, if it was found to be so…" There was a pause as Murtagh's voice visibly tightened. Janus remained deathly silent.

"Keep that in mind, Captain…" he murmured before his tone returned to its dark nature. "…before you send another Empire letter to the Varden."

There were no words to describe the fear that immediately clawed its way into Janus' whole being. He felt himself shake…him a grown man…A Captain…A _warrior_…shaking like a leaf. Hands felt suddenly clammy as a cold swept him in the air stifled room. The stories of the maddening torture that men endured in the dark, damp dungeons of the castle came to thought, making his heart stop abruptly in his chest. He was choked with silence, unable to say anything…

Murtagh turned in his direction again, taking his gaze from the darkened city. A haggard expression enraptured what Janus had always known as an impenetrable mask of nonchalance and silent indifference.

"Go to your family, Captain." He said finally. "Report to me tomorrow, for weapon's training…."

A look of unperturbed shock battered the Captain's face. "You're…You're not going to report me to the King?" He managed to stutter out across the thickened dark air. He didn't see the light pink lips of the Prince tighten in the dark.

"No." the answer was abrupt, laced with a darkened aura. "I have much more use for you now."

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Well, this was an unexpectedly fast update. I enjoyed writing from the POV's from my original characters, it was thoroughly refreshing. I do hope that you guys enjoyed it as well. Remember to R&R guys, all feedback is appreciated...constructive feedback that is...


	7. Chapter 7

Hello guys, here with another Chapter of T.T.H. Yes, I am fully aware that the update is rather late...I know there really aren't any excuses but alas I will attempt some.

**1**. I recently got my exam results from CAPE.** 2.** Catching up on A level Spanish for this year's hard course and **3. Been totally consumed by a) Jamaica 50 Celebrations and b) Jamaican sprint races at the Olympics...Proud of Usain Bolt + all our participants and medalists! 4.** I've been majorly consumed by this original science fantasy fiction that I've been constructing, finally finished the Prologue and nearly done with the first chapter. It's a labour of love really, and like many if not all budding writers, I do hope to both finish it and publish one day. And last but not least, with my last year of highschool starting soon I've been overloaded with sorting out college stuff.

Ok. Done with the chatter. But short note: Please don't expect a close update with my other story...I'm shamed to confess that although I have started writing the coming chapter I'm not even near half done. *please don't kill me.* I'll try to finish as soon as possible...!

Thank you so much for all those who reviewed on the last chapter it was greatly appreciated. You guys always make my day a bit brighter...! :)

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I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War is hell.

- William Tecumseh Sherman

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Chapter Six

War, the Dance of Shadow

Their meetings were in secret - usually in the dead of night when delicate sighs and snores could be heard behind closed chambers along the half lit halls and from the guards who were supposed to be alert at their posts. It became habitual...the quiet snuffing out of the oil lamp by the bedside table... the blanket covering an already dressed figure, - the silent waiting for the quiet whistling of the still night air being sliced by sapphire blue scales. She would slip out unto her balcony then, and watch in brief and mute awe as the lithe body of glittering sapphire would swoop down from delicate perch along a nearby castle steeple and muscled arms would scoop her up effortlessly into the saddle. The Lady always sat in front, clenched firmly in her Rider's grasp as the partner-of-his-mind-and-heart would then shoot suddenly into the height of the crisp night air; flying higher and higher 'til the earth itself seemed mere muddled lines and patterns, and Feinster lay a blurred dot in the distance. It was then that they would talk - floating amid the mist of night gray cloud. She would often tell him of the meetings he now habitually missed…

Tonight was different. The dark woman could feel it in the very air as they flew out across the countryside; she could feel it in the habitually tense grasp that Eragon had upon her waist as they flew blindly through the fog of cloud. She could feel it lingering in the depths of her mind - the hesitance and the silent dread that gnawed at her stomach. She shivered as a strong gale of icy air rushed upon them as Saphira slowly descended from the eagle height they had been cruising at - maintaining her usual silence as she did in such meetings. The ivory hand that had been clamped at her waist loosened at the action.

"Are you cold?" Nasuada turned in the saddle, to see Eragon removing the thick coat he had worn to hand to her. She smiled a bit at this and after hesitantly grasping the warm material, her eyes then flitted in concern and she politely pushed it back towards him.

"I have a coat..." fingers slithered across the thin material of the covering she had worn. "I would not have you suffer in this terrible cold for the sake of chivalry and my own slight for not carrying warmer garment."

He smiled humourlessly at her and consented knowing that arguing would not change anything; the Lady was stubborn even when it was not needed. His arms then resumed previous position around her waist and a thinned expression stole the smile from his lips as he felt her lean into him; her dark body trembled ever so slightly in his grasp.

"We agreed that here in the air, I am not your vassal and you my liege - that we are _equals_?"

Nasuada nodded in reply, too cold to turn to him but she visibly tensed again as his warm arm retracted from her for the second time.

"Then take the damned coat..." wide umber eyes were met by the unusually serious expression of Eragon and Nasuada blinked in silent surprise at his hard tone. She had noted rather bleakly in past days the grim seriousness that cloaked his usual light being. It was evident that the death of the Golden Rider had changed him - replacing once smiles and flowed emotion to stony expressions of repressed anger and hurt. She had taken note in past days his ability to hide such emotion had grown…and did not know whether to rejoice or _weep_ at the growing skill that she herself had already mastered. Grasping the coat from him, she then hesitantly slipped it unto her shivering body. The warm relief was vocal and Nasuada then allowed herself to shift comfortably in the Rider's grasp, the back of her head tucked in the crook of his neck. She could almost forget the reason she had asked to meet this night..._almost_.

"The Council..." she sighed, the hot breath caught in her throat.

"They're planning something." Her tone was whispered as they hovered in deathly height above the still black ground of pastureland far outside the Feinstern border.

Eragon kept silent as Nasuada continued, her tone blank. If she was worried it was not heard in her voice.

"They have not challenged me in anyway during this past week, even with such sudden dismissal of the letter." She felt Eragon stiffen as he habitually did whenever the Empire letter was mentioned. Nasuada ignored it however turning her eyes towards the slit of shining half-moon that seemed to float with the thin layer of cloud mere inches above them. Nasuada knew that Galbatorix was no fool. Had the other members of her Council felt the same, they would have figured the whole thing out by now as she and Eragon had those few nights ago. Like Galbatorix had her in the Battle of Burning Plains, they underestimated him and that she knew was a dangerous thing to do. But indeed certain sense could be drawn from experience alone...it seemed that too had escaped them.

It was common knowledge among those in high station, that all letters written within the Empire nobility were scripted by hand and sealed with an insignia ring. It was a matter to do with authenticity her father had told her once in his usual detached way. It was a method proven and one employed even by the Varden. A copied letter would never be accepted or recognized as truth…Such mistake in battle could prove fatal - allowing enemies control of the postal system that controlled not only the personal mail but an army's battle strategies as well. But it was in this strange _mistake_ that both vassal and liege found sense...realizing their fortune amid harrowing discovery of an Empire heir.

If it were truly the King trying to trick them he would not make such petty mistake of copying a letter or scripting it from magic…he would make actual _effort_ to convince them. But this letter had been copied, and rather crudely by the look of half formed words and splattered ink which according to Eragon signified one inexperienced with magic; which as they knew Galbatorix and his ever evasive minion were not. And so, with promised silence on the matter from her Rider, she had kept such secret in her heart for the past days _- publicly dismissing it as a hoax in the Council meeting_ - and only daring to disclose the truth to her trusted Jormundor. The matter with spies was always a delicate one; one which she doubted she would ever disclose to the Council. There was a mutual sense of polite mistrust shared between them...they kept things from her and she returned the favour in kind.

"Perhaps they actually agree with your decisions this time." Eragon murmured lowly. He was not certain why Nasuada had asked to meet him this night. Her note had been oddly untidy as if she had rushed it in secret, even daring to send it not by the habitual pigeon but by her hand maid, Farica. There was an unsaid nervousness between them...whatever she wished to converse with him was important he knew, but with the anxiety there was solace. He found in past weeks apart from Saphira's, hers was the only _human_ company he treasured to keep.

Nasuada was broken from past reflection as Eragon's words washed over her and the reaction was delayed. Her face seemed blank as if frozen in contemplation but she suddenly laughed emptily at such suggestion.

"It's one of the few times I can tell by your tone, Eragon, that your habitual optimism is thoroughly insincere." She paused for a second, waiting for him to contest such, but her liege remained utterly silent.

"There was nothing..." she sighed as if mystified. "nothing when I mentioned the move from Surda...and I know it was prime occasion to quash my suggestions with actual valid reasons - and Sabrae did not even take the chance. It's a thing she would not refrain from, absent prodding from the others. Each may be each a snake in his own regard but they are a pack of vipers when together – venomous and utterly deadly…" the huskiness of her feminine voice faded in the night wind as the gale caught in Saphira's wings and they were frozen in flight for few moments.

"I fear for the winter Eragon...and what terror it may bring..."

"They _are_ plotting..." she heard the resigned acceptance in his voice as it had with her own. "But...by chance do you have any idea wh-"

"Marriage." the answer came blandly before Eragon could even finish the question. It was spat with such hatred that it signed through the cold wind that whipped steadily across them.

She could sense the shock reverberate from her Rider as she sat before him. He was silent, a silence that did not emanate bleak mood, but rather just how stunned he was. Nasuada had not been when she had learned of their plan - rather she had expected it. She had hoped and hoped but indeed the secretive little rats had taken advantage of coming doom of winter to compromise her own position as the Varden's leader. She wondered to herself if they realized what horrific impact that could have on the Rebellion.

The next question was inevitable.

"Orrin...?"

There was an extensive sigh as the Lady clenched unto the secure arm that bound her waist in safety.

"...Yes." she murmured her tone sounding dead.

"I expected as much, with the current rift between Surda and the Varden, he is the most suited match. With Jormundor's strange moods and his odd praising of King Orrin these past days it drew further suspicion but I got confirmation through my handmaid, Farica. She overheard conversation between the two in the courtyard few days before."

"Oh…" was all the vassal managed to procure. He sounded unconvinced as if not comprehending the Surdan King and the Lady of the Varden as suitable match...or Nasuada in wifely role.

A wafting silence then stretched on for airy minutes and it seemed for a moment all was forgotten as the beauty of the night enchanted each eye as spools of liquid silver stretched out before them…The borders of the Hadarac glimmered like a thin ribbon in the distance. Eragon had seen such space before…the sea of silver sand seemed to stretch on to forever into the east even at such height. The sight awed – but it was Nasuada's gasp that allowed a faint smile to slither unto his lips; and he remembered she had never beheld such geography before. But for him this space of empty desert held memories that were too painful to reflect upon – but the unmistakable sense of nostalgia wafted over him in heavy drones – and his chest tightened as the image of the Traitor came back to him. He remembered the feeling of blunted metal against his flesh – the cold desert blighting already chaffed and aching arms as the weight of Zar'roc –still his then - clashed ferociously against a silver blade. The tightening sensation worsened and it became hard to breathe as already wounded mind became drenched with the sensations of past desert life…

_-the loud clanging of metal-_

_ - weltering groans of pain as dulled blade strikes flesh-_

_ -sharing laughter and flushing faces-_

_-aching arms and sore legs dancing in a blur of swordsman's waltz-_

_ -the blade at his throat-_

_ -Murtagh is so much better than he seems-_

"It's beautiful…"

Eragon heaved in the saddle as Nasuada's voice shot him back to reality. His soul clung to the soothing sound as it dragged him from the dark hurt that threatened to rip him apart with such vivid memory. Hazel eyes blinked dry but the hole in his chest seemed to gape at the world and a part of him wondered if those piercing prodding umber eyes of the Lady could see his torn state. If they could really see past the pained mask of stoicism that he exerted all energy in maintaining...just so those eyes would not gaze at him with sickening pity. He inhaled sharply catching the scent of cinnamon from the wind that whipped through her hair and found solace in the whispered words of comfort from his dragon. The grip upon the lady before him loosened from eased state to harsh security - He had lost a friend, a teacher - he could not...**Would not** lose anyone else. He felt the gaping hole there still unclosed, but with it came bitter determination.

The word...'vengeance' whispered stronger in his ear, eating away at his soul, tainting it. And for the first time Eragon could recognize that the dark damp voice that slithered past all defenses in his mind to bite at him incessantly _was his own_. A numbness slithered over him like a shielding cloak at this and he allowed himself to swallowed up by the hate. The single glimmer of light that had been fighting against the smothering darkness was suddenly snuffed out like a candle held against the cold night wind and the word singed through him like fire - He melted into it. Frigid hands smoothed from the Lady's shoulder and unto the sharp icy scales of Saphira..._It was his own voice_. The bitterness seeped into his chest and he fed off it, hands clenching unconsciously to the warm object that had slipped unnoticed in his grasp. And then realization struck. . .

He looked down in confusion to see Nasuada's hand delicately entwined in his own, her body arched towards his. Hazel eyes then glanced up to meet the plain uncertainty..and fear? in her dark umber black orbs...and he knew there was something...something she had said that he had not heard. . . something_ important_.

"I'm sorry Nasuada...what was that?" A biting feeling had twisted itself into his gut and he saw Nasuada shift, vulnerability etched into the fine features of her face against the moonlight. Such move unnerved him even more.

She kept silent however, seemingly too embarrassed to repeat what she had said when he been too enraptured by internal conflict to hear her. Instead, warm dark fingers slithered further in his cold grasp and in it he felt something hard press into his palm. It felt cold, small...metal. The twisted feeling wrenched in his gut, traveling down his whole body in sharp painless spasms of unknown nervousness. He opened his palm and immediately mind went blank.

Eragon sat before his Lady utterly dumbstruck. His mouth was propped agape in surprise and in his open palm the golden circlet glimmered against the cold silver light of the moon.

He saw her mouth move, but the shaky words that procured from dark lips seemed not to register as his whole body froze in shock.

"...M-marry me...?"

-X-

Afternoons in Uru'baen were always the same…_dreadful_. The word seemed etched into the very lives of those in the Lower Town – those that dwelled in the slums; who drank in the dank poverty, the depression and the odours of rotting – _anything_ that fortunately found sense to give up the ghost during the cold nights. It was a feeling, a notion that slithered across the slums, slowly fading in intensity like a choking odour as it ascended the hill city - the winding circles of the Middle Town - until it was unfelt completely in the heart of Uru'baen itself; the very place where the castle stood – a colossus of fear and mystery.

There was no depression there, only ornate gardens of the rarest flowers, the most exquisite architecture echoing through finely built walls and the even finer furnishings within. If one were stranger to the King's abode, at first stay he would perhaps make mistake that this place was free, paradise even; that the perfumed air from the royal gardens intoxicated with delight as did all other things within that great deception – the magnificent illusion of the King. But the Red Rider had learnt and had learnt well, that all things were not as they appeared; that the perfumed air was in fact rotten - only changed in scent but still managed to stifle and smother the very life force of any being that dwelled in the great shadow of the castle and King for too long. It reeked of death, danger and darkness. A week… a month… the visitors always left more daunted, strangely tethered and more disturbed than when they had first come to taste of the rotting fruit called Uru'baen.

He had lived amongst all that smothered tensions, the bondage and the illusions for almost two years now. He was a part of it all – the stifled perfumed air, the ornate walls, the illusion that the dark King had created and tainted all others with. He was as much a part of it all as the King himself…he was the _Prince _after all. Ivory toned fingers held the silver circlet in their grasp, as light blue eyes glanced over the object – the emeralds and sapphires that elegantly adorned it. It was power…it was…_bondage_. The two halves of his mind always found disagreement in this…but in rare moments they would find common ground. Moments usually initiated outside of his control...Eyes flitted almost bitterly across the purple scars along the back of his hands - another lesson learned.

The lone figure of the Prince sat in the closed safety of his chambers upon the very seat that Janus, the Captain of his guard, had taken few days before. His figure was haunted – the dream had come to him again…of the forest, the awful cruel red light – the force that ripped through his body and mind. It felt like a thousand icicles tearing through his flesh; and each time he had awoken to the sound of Thorn's mirrored distress and another sound - a scream that echoed through his dreams into waking reality….a familiar voice, a presence that he knew all too well. It had been the sixth night until he had placed it, and when mind finally tinged in recognition, the thought of such person in dream consumed him in both day and night. It was always at the peak of the harrowing pain when he heard the voice scream in desperation for its own companion, and then Murtagh would wake, his heart pounding – his head reeling and that terrible cold icicle feeling slugging through his veins with the sound of Eragon's voice ripping through his mind.

_"Saphira!"_

The thought of it today caused his gut to clench as he sat before the scattered parchments and opened scrolls before him. The Royal Library of the castle had become his own safety – a small escape from the King if only for few hours; and more recently the fuel for his most current obsession. It was a blessing of sorts: upon his elevation he found the King summoned much less than usual. It seemed he had taken to his _own obsessions_ as well…

Ivory toned fingers placed the crown upon the cherry wood scribe's desk, as eyes caught sight of an intriguing page of one of the scrolls that he had managed to sneak into his Chambers._ "Among the fables of the Wandering Tribes of Wanaseh, the gem was a symbol of great evil – a power that was both feared and revered." _Eyes paused upon the page which had been scripted in the ancient language and for a brief moment he found a little appreciation for all that mental torture that Galbatorix had thrust upon him with his insistence for him to learn the Ancient Language proficiently. Blue eyes then widened at a crude drawing that had been etched into the old withered parchment – a gem – a small orb poised perfectly between the coils of two winged serpents with some ancient runes etched along their twisted bodies. He grasped the old parchment in both hands at this, more intrigued than anything as his eyes caught the last sentences of the page.

_" The lost gems of the Wicapi Wakan or what the Tribes called the Holy Star is an object of mystery and great power – the wearers of which were fabled to have the ancient powers of the Ahote….and were called .."_ A curious expression bit into the dark features of his face as the afternoon light streamed through the large open windows of his room. The paragraph had ended there where the script had faded beyond recognition and a part of him cursed how old these scripts were; the scroll that he had held in his grasp looked like it was about to fall apart into a puff of dust, but Murtagh reminded himself that these scripts were ancient – living relics preserved by magic and the only surviving remnants of literature during the times of the Dragon Wars.

The word _'Ahote'_ lingered with him as eyes drifted over the image of the gem upon the faded parchment. He swallowed as the icy feeling that he found haunted him in dream stirred within his veins as the word replayed in thought. It was a curious feeling like something that had awakened within him as the image of the gem pierced into his mind. He remembered the first time he had seen it. . .

_. . ._

_"All hail Prince Murtagh of Uru'baen…" The Red Rider found himself smiling a bit, as another dignitary stepped forward and bowed lowly before the large table, where he sat at the head beside the King. Thorn had retired to the Dragon Hold earlier with Shruikan, too overwhelmed by the clamor of the celebration and had left his Rider to the unfamiliar smothering adoration by both the citizens and the dignitaries that had traveled to the city for the coronation ceremony. The Rider had understood this sudden retraction and had rather reluctantly allowed himself to be carried away absent his companion and into the large Feasting Hall of the castle for the after ceremony - where he would personally meet the nobles that had traveled from their citadels to honour him._

_The extensive feast lay before them in humongous quantities of delicacies, some of which he had never even heard of. The Prince looked past them and eyed the slender man before him, with a critical gaze. It was evident that this man, who had been announced as Lord Rsithart, Governor of Teirm, was rather elderly. With the fine wisps of snow white hair on his head and the visible trembling as he made attempt to bow, the man looked so frail a part of Murtagh feared he would give up the ghost in effort to lift himself up from the light bow that he had given. With a silent wave of the hand, he motioned for the Court Guards to help the man up as he presented the ceremonial gift as the other dignitaries had been doing. Hands unconsciously brushed against the foreign circlet upon his head, not accustomed to the weight, but he consoled himself with the notion that he would get used to it soon enough._

_There had been a carriage of majestic Surdan Horses, a chest of fine woven linen, scarlet and gold and the finest hunting set made from pure silver so far. It was evident that the King was already bored and stayed only for the formality, but a part of the Prince found himself anticipating what other things he would be presented with. For the first time in his life he found himself praised…revered even and respected. The fact that it may have been out of fear was purposely ignored…and he allowed himself to revel in the unfamiliar glory. The expression of such was etched into the shadows of his face as the large torches that were poised from the walls and the soft candle light from the ornate candle sticks brightened the large Feasting Hall. The elderly man coughed a bit, and Murtagh wondered if something was wrong. At the action however a younger man with a cropped beard stepped forward from behind the few courtiers that had accompanied Lord Rsithart. Murtagh noted his gangly figure dressed in the similar fine clothes as the Governor was. He put two and two together as he saw the similarities in their features as the younger man stood beside his father, a small ornate box in his hand._

_"My Prince, we present you with the fabled jewel of the Wanaseh…one that has been safeguarded upon its discovery in Teirm for countless of generations." The younger man, who looked much older than Murtagh, bowed lowly as he opened the highly decorated box and revealed its contents. The disappointment in Murtagh's eyes was far from evident; he was always good at hiding his emotions in cooled stoicism. _

_What use would he have for a jewel? _

_He motioned for one of the courtiers to bring him the box and examined it himself. The box he deemed was perhaps for valuable than the jewel itself. It was a feeble ruby, small yet…strangely perfectly round like an orb with no marks of the jewel cutter's tool. Murtagh gazed at it curiously as he held it out to the light. Usually jewels reflected the light in the room but this one seemed to radiate on its own, sucking the light out of each candle and torch and into itself. Eyes furrowing at this, he placed it back in its box, deeming it a trick of the light and nodded towards the Governor and his son. _

_"Your gift…and your allegiance to this Empire is both accepted and appreciated, Lord Rsithart…and…" he paused motioning to his son that was stationed at the elderly man's side._

_"Godfried…" The bearded man answered him his voice sounded like what one would imagine a snake's would. Murtagh repeated the name before nodding in his usual detached way. Placing the unusual jewel inside the given case, he handed one of the servants by his side to place it with the other given gifts. Murtagh turned as he felt the cold gaze of familiar black eyes piercing in his direction and abruptly met the gaze of the King on his right. But the King did not have his gaze upon him, rather it was the servant, who held the jewel box in his hands. There was a strange intrigue in his unconscious staring and Murtagh felt himself unease upon noting the crude interest that had found itself in the lingering in the dark eyes of the king who had before embodied the image of boredom. The feeling of uneasiness clenched further in his gut as the Prince turned his face towards another dignitary who now stood before them…yet his attention was not in the least with them. It was consumed by the sudden interest that Galbatorix had given towards the strange jewel that at first glance Murtagh had deemed unimportant. And worse, the all too familiar snake like smile that had slithered unto the thin grey lips of the King. This jewel, whatever it was… was evidently important to him._

_. . ._

The knock upon the solid dark wood of his Chamber door brought him suddenly from memory and glancing at the parchment before him, the Prince was a bit disoriented. The slithering feeling of cooled blood lingered in strange frigidity through his veins as the memory was replaced by present reality; and he found his eyes still mysteriously fixed upon the drawing of the ancient gem. His gaze was glued to faint image as a strange magnetic sensation held him...it was like it was pulling at him - tugging gently at the lines of his consciousness; the sharp knock rung through again, abruptly breaking him from the low trance. Closing the book in delayed reaction and stuffing it under a series of courtier parchments, he belatedly called out the person who had disturbed him during his secret research.

"Come in…" his voice was tinged in its usual cold way as he glanced in light annoyance at the courtier parchments that he had used to cover the borrowed scrolls from the Library. He recognized one of them to be a report handed to him earlier by one of the King's man servants. The painfully neat script of Galbatorix bit at him as he lightly glanced over the thick parchment. The action was met with immediate surprise and he grabbed it suddenly from the table, staring at it with wild eyes. Murtagh stiffened in the solid cherry wood chair as he heard the heavy door of his Chambers slowly creak open. His eyes were fixed, widened, as his lips tightened involuntarily.

"My Prince..." the title was not heard, as Murtagh was consumed with the words from the report. His whole body tensed in the chair as sharp blue eyes flitted quickly across the parchment, eating up each word almost frantically. Fingers clenched upon the edges of the paper, denting it as an unfamiliar horror clenched him.

"Your Highness..." the voice was insistent in address...but the Rider's stature seemed even more so...insistently set in position seemingly ignorant of the repeated greeting. Murtagh's lithe figure was frozen in obvious horror. His eyes flitted repeatedly across the report - flickering frantically from one tense emotion to the next.

"Sire…?"

"What!" The parchment was crushed in the same moment that the Rider turned suddenly to the stranger, his eyes blazing. The young man, or..._boy_ who looked no more than fourteen notably trembled at the unexpected bark. Visibly on the verge of tears he favoured a frightened deer about to bound off to the safety of the outer hall. The sense of guilt that should have hit the Prince was lost in the tense emotion that smothered him in the moment.

_"If he's the deer, then wouldn't that make you the wolf...?"_ an unexpected presence slithered easily into the recesses of Murtagh's mind reverberating humour. In usual circumstance such unexpected interruption from Thorn would have earned a brightly humoured yet irritated retort from the Rider...but now there was nothing but relief.

_"Thorn...thank the gods..." _Even in mind his tone was whispered, drenched in relief...but with it there was tension. The dragon could sense it immediately.

"_Murtagh, I have only been hunting for a few hours…surely you could not have missed me **that** much._" The humour continued with light teasing. Thorn had made jest before leaving that Murtagh could not survive a few hours without him; and after igniting a brief friendly argument, the dragon had broken their connection during his hunt to prove such point. There was satisfaction radiating from him at Murtagh's worried tone. He thought himself victor.

The deep vibrato of the reptilian voice tinged in sudden realization as unmistaken fear slithered from Murtagh to Thorn through their bond.

_"Something has happened."_ it wasn't a question. It was a statement, a fact known - the details however not revealed, but the dragon could feel his Rider cloaking such facts in the dark recesses of his mind; favouring to shield him from the true impact of whatever had occurred.

There was no response as Murtagh slowly stood from his seat, but the thorough discomfort that slithered from him to Thorn through their bond was answer enough.

"What is it..?" the icy tone his voice had previously adopted had now slipped into a reasonable one as Murtagh addressed the servant boy for a second time. His voice was not in the least warm, yet it was enough to visibly sooth the nervous boy who at such response had even dared to take his gaze from the floor to glance up at him.

"M-m'Lord…" The breaking voice of the boy stuttered in unconfidence as he made a failed attempt at a courtly bow. Murtagh harshly concluded that he must have been either new to court, hopelessly clumsy, or so terribly afraid of him that all sense had fled from him. Not one to give the benefit of the doubt, he favoured the latter conclusion. It was one he had more experienced.

"The King… has requested your presence in the Throne Room."

Those words were enough to bring the Prince to sudden silence and the servant boy scurried out hurriedly afterward as if some devil were upon his heel. He seemed so relieved to get out of there that he had even forgotten to close the doors behind him. Murtagh stood, dazed as the words from the report replayed in thought...the servant's message singeing through him like fire.

_"What does the King wish from you now?" _Thorn voice was tinted in concern as it slithered into the Rider's mind again. He knew as well as Murtagh did that Galbatorix rarely called for him – and in such moments when he did, it was never…_good._

The crushed parchment dangled between loosened fingers and Murtagh stood alone in his Chambers. The light of the noon was dampened, reflecting shadow as the sun was swallowed by unexpected cloud. A sense of dread stifled the Rider slithering over to his dragon in mutuality. And the fears that he had hidden from Thorn came rippling into the light.

_"Thorn…I'm afraid…he's discovered us."_ There was a pause as the Rider's mind voice clung with dread.

_"He **knows**…"_

* * *

Well, the chapter that I was actually writing was bordering 8000 words and that was too long for this story whose chapters are usually 4000 odd. I found myself cutting corners just to end the chapter, so I scrapped the last part and am going to post it in the coming chapter hopefully.

This chapter sad to say was a bit of a filler in some aspects to introduce and focus on certain plot lines that I wish to explore...

I know many of you were like wth happened with Nasuada and Eragon!? Truth is I needed to get the ball rolling some more, by not dragging on too much about politics in a politcal setting but by smushing Eragon's emotional metamorphisis, his mental state and also Nasuada's woes into One big bow - while pushing the story along. I thought it would be interesting if she found out about the council's plans of wedding her off to Orrin and that part of the chapter kind of shaped it self. Plus I think this adds some loverly conflict don't you?

Yes I ended it on a bit of a cliff hanger. You know that's one of my signatures by now..I can't help it, I feel incomplete without them.

I Do Apologize profusely again for being away for so long...truth is school work is murdering me right now. I barely have time to scratch my own head. Can't promise I'll be posting in the next week or so but I will do my best to follow up as quickly as I can.

Love Y'all!

- S.B.


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